Chapter: Rallying the troops
He was the very model of a modern outdated space engineer: They’re all a bunch of fruits!
“What is, man? Can’t you see I’m busy trying to pull two heavy cruisers through the hells of hyperspace with only my bare hands and a few oversized trunk lines?” Chief Engineer Spalding was absolutely snarling. The young pup that somehow became the ship’s new first officer blinked.
“How many of the ship’s main weapon systems are now fit for service,” repeated Officer Tremblay, pushing forward in the face of a very red faced chief engineer.
“The main weapons?! What are you blathering about, man? It's taken all I’ve got just to get the ship ready for this abortion of an operation we’re calling a point transfer. Now you want to know how many weapons I’ve had time to install,” he stuck out a hand and started counting fingers to go with his points, “in between hooking together two heavy cruisers for the most risky jump in two centuries, and breaking my blasted leg. I have no idea and no time for this sort of bureaucratic nonsense,” he said, stopping at two finger and moving to cut the connection and go back to work on his overstressed and nearly overloaded star drive when the young pup cut him off.
“Very well, then. Prepare for ship-to-ship combat as soon as we break free of the inertial sump. The Admiral,” First Officer Tremblay shook his head at this, “changed our course. We’re answering a distress call and are taking the ship pirate hunting.” He glared at the chief engineer. “I hope that was a bureaucratic enough explanation for you, Mr. Spalding.”
“Space rot,” cursed the elderly officer. Suddenly the ship lurched. “I’ll have get back to you,” he said over his shoulder, abandoning the communication console and running over to check on the Star Drive.
“Sweet Servants of the Demon Murphy, every blasted one of them,” he despaired after he saw they’d successfully penetrated hyperspace. “They pull the only man on the ship who knows what he’s doing away from the control. Then telling him he’s got reinstall every weapons the blasted imp’s tore out during their so-called refit, and all while we’re under combat conditions to boot.”
All around him cheers broke out as the engineering crew celebrated the ship’s survival.
In a sour mood, Spalding glared at the prematurely celebrating crew.
In a fit of temper he lit his plasma torch and waved it around to get attention. When only those immediately near him responded by looking at the old engineer, he scowled and activated the speaker system. “Alright, my fine young lads. That’s enough goofin' around. Its time for papa Spalding’s miracle number three,” he roared, shaking his plasma torch at the engineering crew. “So if you were under the mistaken impression that pulling that pile of bolts they called a pirate cruiser through hyperspace with us was a challenge, well my laddies, you ain’t seen nothin' yet!”
Spalding smiled at the falling faces of the engineering crew as they came to realize the hard work wasn’t over yet. “Its double and triple shifts until we run a new batch of pirate scum out of this system!” He looked around at the now visibly alarmed and shaken crew. “Cheer up, boys. Between the double time and hazard pay, your next paycheck are sure to be all fat and bloated.” He frowned at the lackluster response.
“To Hades with that,” a spacehand exclaimed from somewhere in the back. “I’ll take it nice and safe any day. Tell the Admiral to just take us home.” Heads bobbed in agreement.
“Alright you bunch of slack jawed idiots,” he said, waving his plasma torch at the nearest of the complainers. “Enough standing around gaping like a bunch of fools. First shift hit the cargo holds, I’ve a list with the location of every one of our weapons those runaway Imps tried to jettison for junk. Team leaders come see me for an upload pronto. Second shift, suit up, its out to the hull for you your job will be reinstalling the weapons systems as soon they’re handed to you by the First shift.”
Next, he pulled up the DI and rerouted his voice to the cabins of everyone assigned to Third. “Third shift wake up you bunch of layabouts, its out of bed and into engineering for you slackers. This ship won’t fly herself!”
He watched with deep satisfaction as everyone scurried around with new purpose. He took a step to corral one of the team leaders, and grimaced as fire shot up his leg. “Blasted busted up leg,” he complained to no one in particular.
With a determined gimp he hobbled off to save the ship.
The Deposed King
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