No Middle Ground (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride) (10 page)

Middleton nodded agreeably. “If it’s all the same to you, I think that would be best.”

“Very good, Captain,” Representative Kong said with an inclination of his head. “I am forwarding the packet to you now.”

The console chimed, indicating that he had indeed received a data packet from the other man. A quick perusal indicated that it at least appeared to be what Middleton had asked for, with nearly two million individual entries, so he nodded. “I have it now. Thank you, Representative. As to the individual case I asked you to present…?”

Representative Kong shook his head shortly. “It was not easy, but I managed to convince them to acquiesce on that particular matter as well. On behalf of my people I wish you serendipity in your efforts, Captain Middleton,” he said, again bowing his head behind clasped hands. “May your travels again bring you to our harmonious world.”

Middleton smiled to himself triumphantly before realizing the job wasn’t quite done.

Now he had to convince his officers of this particular idea’s merits. He prayed that was going to be easier than convincing Representative Kong.

“Let me get this straight, Captain,” Garibaldi said, only fractionally less rebelliously than Middleton had expected, “you want us to use this planet’s
prisoners
to replace our lost crew?”

“Normally I don’t agree with the Chief on much, if anything,” Sergeant Joneson interjected in his deep, smooth voice, “but I’m lining up on his side of the ball this time, sir.”

Murmurs of assent came from all around the conference table and, fearing that the situation might spin quickly out of control, Middleton loudly cleared his throat. When he had the table’s full attention, he activated the main view screen inside the conference room. “This is a graphical breakdown of the planet’s entire prison population—a total group of just over two million,” he said, pausing at that number for several seconds before continuing, “with that population divided by age; offenses, by class and severity; as well as remaining sentence duration. I’m sure there are other ways we can parse these numbers, but those should help us narrow it down to about one percent without too much work.”

“Yeah, but we’re still talking about twenty thousand people, Captain,” Garibaldi objected. “With over two hundred empty bunks aboard, that leaves another cut down to the next one percent; how do we even do that?”

“We could start with conscientious objectors,” suggested Jo, otherwise known to the rest of the crew by now as ‘Dr. Middleton.’ “I’ve been reading about these ‘social harmony’ laws, and it sounds an awful lot like a classic, dystopian ‘tyranny of the masses’ situation. There have to be hordes of people who we would classify as political prisoners, or asylum-seekers who tried to get off-world but failed?”

The other department heads nodded their agreement, and the mood took a decided turn for the better.

“That’s a great idea, Doctor,” the Captain agreed, “but unfortunately we don’t get access to the objectors
or
the asylum-seekers, which cuts about two hundred thousand right off the top. The white collar crowd is open to us, however, so I agree that they should be given first look. The problem is that this society doesn’t exactly present a lot of opportunities for graft or corruption—and most of the truly successful criminals in this particular arena wind up dying mysteriously not too long after they’ve been apprehended—so we’re only talking about roughly fifty thousand people there.”

“Which leaves…what?” asked Ensign Sarkozi into the growing silence.

Middleton stood and clicked through to the next page, which outlined the most populace group available to them for recruitment and the entire room seemed to groan in unison.

“Comprising over seventy percent of this planet’s prison population are violent offenders, and those convicted of ‘crimes against the body of the state’ which means, essentially, vandalism or theft,” he said, ignoring the collective downturn in the group’s mood. “I’ve taken the liberty of removing all prisoners whose remaining sentences are less than five years,” he continued, “as well as those whose most recent physicals would preclude military service based on age, physical and/or mental deficits, and lack of basic aptitudes including their state-mandated intelligence, personality, and social skills examinations—”

“Wait,” Jo interrupted incredulously, “hold on a minute. You’re telling me that each of these prisoners has been forced to undergo a series of examinations to determine their intellectual capacity, personality makeup and social quotient?” Looking around and likely seeing that she was alone in her outrage among present company, she sat back in her chair. “That’s…horrible.”

“It is what it is,” Middleton said with a shrug. “While it may seem dehumanizing to us, it presents the benefit of making our job of selection considerably easier. And in any case, we don’t have the luxury to stand on principle by refusing to utilize the available data. Your assignments over the next three days are to devote every waking hour of your departments’ assigned personnel not dedicated to critical shipboard functions to reviewing these twenty six thousand cases. Obviously if you think we can add some more slices of the pie, I’m open to expanding the search,” he said pointedly.

When no one made clear they thought that was a particularly grand idea, Captain Middleton nodded while keeping his best poker face. “Then you have your assignments; I suggest focusing on those cases which were made with less-than-sterling evidence, to increase the chances of recruiting the wrongfully imprisoned,” he said, standing from the table while everyone else followed suit. “Dismissed.”

The officers shuffled out of the room one by one, with even Garibaldi mostly keeping his disgruntlement to himself as they exited the room. The only person who remained in the room with Middleton was Jo, his ex-wife and current Doctor.

“You enjoyed that more than you should have, Tim,” she said with a shake of her head.

Sitting back down in his seat, Captain Middleton sighed and allowed a pent-up smile to spread across his face. “Call it the privilege of rank,” he quipped before turning serious. “In any case, we can’t very well make repairs and get back out on active duty without a full complement of crew. Given the circumstances, this is the best I can do to address that need.”

“Still,” she said, shaking her head, “I’m not sure about filling half your ship with convicts—especially violent offenders.”

Middleton shrugged, since there was quite literally no other option available to him without abandoning his mission and running back to the Admiral in defeat. “I’m guessing that out of twenty six thousand we can find a couple hundred that fit the bill. Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “when all’s said and done, we’re in the hurt business. All we need to do is instill a little discipline and redirect their natural tendencies to a more productive outlet.”

“Productive?” Jo scoffed. “By whose measure?”

Middleton sighed. “Doctor, you of all people should understand the risk associated with reopening old wounds. Let’s just keep the past where it belongs.”

She looked like she wanted to argue the point, but to Middleton’s surprise she shook her head and stood from her chair. “I don’t want to argue with you, Tim,” she said with an unexpected hint of apology in her voice. “I’ll take a look at the qualified medical practitioners to see if there’s one who can serve as your new ship’s doctor.”

Middleton nodded, knowing it was probably for the best that she do so. His ship was far from where he wanted it when it came to discipline and he suspected that when things were run according to his design, she would find it a fairly inhospitable environment. “I would appreciate your input in that regard…and I am truly grateful for your help to this point as well, Jo. Without you I would have lost even more of my crew to that blasted virus.”

Jo gave him a cold, hard look. “Those pirates held me prisoner for three weeks after I refused to help them with that Demon-blasted virus; I couldn’t stand by and do nothing to help its victims, no matter how much I might have disagreed with the situation to begin with,” she said coolly, and her words pierced him to the core.

Momentarily at a loss for words, Middleton nodded reluctantly. “You always did follow your heart…” he said in a hollow tone. “Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

She nodded and they shared a silent moment of reflection before she moved toward the door. Just before she left the room, she turned and said, “I never did thank you for rescuing me from those pirates.”

“You don’t need to,” he replied evenly. “I was just doing my job…but I’m glad you’re alright. If you ever need to talk about what happened…well, I’m not sure it’s a great idea, but I’m here if you think it would help.”

Jo snickered softly. “I’m not the naïve girl you married in college, Tim,” she said as her eyes seemed to drift for a moment before she returned her attention to him, “but thanks for the offer. Who knows, maybe I’ll take you up on it someday?”

With that she left the room, and Captain Tim Middleton was left with a slew of memories both pleasant and painful. He allowed himself to dwell on them for a few minutes before clearing his mind and returning to his quarters for some much-needed rest.

Chapter VII: New Game, Same Rules

“We’ll dock with the
Pride of Prometheus
in twenty minutes,” came the static-laden voice of the shuttle’s pilot through the cabin’s intercom speakers. “Remain in your seats until we’ve touched down,” he added with what could only have been smugness.

But this was a dream come true, and nothing would tarnish the moment for her. Until she had set foot aboard the shuttle she had never really stepped off her home world, but now she was actually going into space! Even though she knew that she would forge her destiny among the stars, and that it would be no easy task, she also knew that nothing in her life had been easy…and she doubted that was going to change now.

Seated to either side of her was a pair of men, one old and the other roughly her own age. The older man was balding with only a scant wisp of near-white hair on the back of his head, while the younger man had longer, black hair—but both had barcode tattoos over their right eyes, clearly signifying their status as lifetime prisoners.

The large, brown-skinned man who had stood at the doorway to the shuttle when she had entered was seated opposite herself. He wore a military uniform with Confederation Standard markings on them that designated him a Lancer Sergeant named Joneson, and from the look of him he was all business.

He held her gaze as her eyes made their way up his uniform, and for a moment she was taken aback by the apparent antipathy she read on his features. But that moment passed when she realized she actually recognized him.

Without thinking, she blurted in her best Confederation Standard, “You are Walter Joneson!”

The man held her with his eyes for several moments before nodding curtly.

She leaned back in awe; this was one of the finest smashball players to ever participate in the Omega Bowl! As a child she had watched replays of his utter dominance in the trenches and had never imagined she would have the privilege to share a shuttle ride with him—let alone serve on the same starship!

She leaned forward but the harness held her firmly in place as she continued deliberately, careful not to make a grammatical error, “This one has watched thousand of games from dozen of different leagues; this one has never seen player your size with such footwork and balance. You are inspiration, sir, and it is honor to be in your presence,” she said with as deep of a nod as she could manage in her current confinement.

The man snorted derisively, which caught her by surprise. She looked up at him and saw his eyes had taken an even harder cast to them than before. “I had to work for everything I ever achieved,” he said evenly. “The price was hard work and sacrifice; nothing worthwhile is ever given.”

Her own eyes narrowed as she took his meaning plainly enough, having dealt with discrimination of this kind for her entire life. Straightening in her chair, she jutted her chin out defiantly. “This one cannot change her birth,” she said stiffly, “and this one would not wish to. One’s talents not determine one’s worth; what one does with opportunity is measure of life.”

Sergeant Joneson held her gaze as she refused to back down an inch—even to such a giant of a man and legend of smashball, which was her lifelong passion. After a few moments of silence, the large man nodded curtly while his expression remained granite-hard. “Well said, Recruit. We’ll soon find out if those are just words to you, or if you really know what they mean.”

The massive Sergeant—who still appeared to be in playing shape after retiring over a decade earlier—unfastened his harness and made his way to the cockpit of the shuttle.

She sat and fumed for several seconds, her moment of blissful hero worship shattered by yet another encounter with bigotry regarding something over which she had absolutely no control. She felt the harness straps bite into her shoulders as she had apparently leaned forward to hard in her anger and barely noticed the young man sitting beside her as he spoke.

“For what it’s worth,” he said under his breath in the language of her home world, “I find the discrimination you’ve faced to be absolutely appalling.”

“Do not speak to this one, prisoner,” she spat in her native tongue. To have risen so high, and yet been cast down so low in such a brief period was nearly enough to make her scream, but she managed to keep a tenuous hold on her volatile emotions. They were as much a part of her as any other aspect of who she was, but she had often found them to be of great detriment as she adjusted to life in normal society.

“Fair enough,” he said with an apologetic splaying of his hands. “But I still think it’s criminal that they never even let you have a name.”

She glared at him. “You would speak of things ‘criminal’ as though your opinion carries weight?” After looking at him for just a moment she saw that he was oddly attractive—in a thin, wiry, wholly un-athletic fashion, of course. She forcibly glanced up at his barcode and recognized the number code, which indicated his crimes were those against public property—the most pathetic type of criminal, in her view.