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

by Caleb Wachter

“Work faster, Shields,” Middleton growled as he realized that Captain Raubach was taking his chances. The longer the enemy ships came at the Pride and Wings, the more likely they were to discover the truth of Middleton’s ‘fleet’ and begin to peck his ships apart from extreme range. With Raubach’s ships clustered relatively closely together, the Pride’s forward heavy lasers could come to bear on any one of them while presenting its strongest defensive face: the bow. But when they finally encircled the aged Hydra-class Medium Cruiser, it would only be a matter of time before they picked her apart where she was weakest, like a pack of wolves bringing down a bear.

  “Gunnery’s requesting target priority, Captain,” the Tactical Officer asked. “Forward array will be ready to fire in eight seconds.”

  Middleton actually had to think about it for a moment, since even a lucky shot against one of the Corvettes would still leave him facing two ships. He briefly toyed with the idea of going head-to-head with the Dämmerung, but decided against it. It was a gamble, and he despised gambling—certainty was what mattered in battle, and he was certain that with a well-aimed volley he could temporarily force one of the Corvettes to fall back.

  “Have Gunnery target Number One Corvette,” the Captain ordered his Tactical Officer, “and have them coordinate their fire with the Wings’ long-range weaponry; let’s drop it down to even odds and see just how serious Captain Raubach and his people really are.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the man reported before relaying his orders. A few seconds later, the Pride’s forward batteries lanced out and the icon of the Corvette covering the Dämmerung’s port flank flashed rapidly. The Elysium’s Wings even contributed a pair of light laser strikes to the barrage, which had the Tactical Officer turn and report, “Number One Corvette’s forward shields are at 22%, Captain; heavy spotting detected. They’re presenting their broadside but still coming. The other two vessels have cut their acceleration as well, and are approaching in formation.”

  The Dämmerung’s forward weapons unloaded, and the Pride of Prometheus was rocked again by the Heavy Destroyer’s increasingly powerful assault. “Forward shields at 28%, Captain,” the Shields operator reported before another round of strikes impacted on the forward shields. These last strikes, authored by the two Corvettes still flanking the Dämmerung, were less potent but still caused the Shields Operator to amend tightly, “Make that 16%, Captain, with critical spotting; recommend we slew the ship to give Engineering teams time to repair multiple blown relays feeding the forward emitters.”

  “Helm, cut acceleration and present the starboard broadside,” Middleton said quickly. The enemy ships had shown impressive accuracy by any standard, and the Pride’s robust forward defensive front was barely at half the strength Middleton’s calculations had shown they would be at this stage.

  “Presenting broadside, aye,” Jersey acknowledged as the Elysium’s Wings moved to cover the Pride’s bow facing.

  At tactical distances—even extremely close ones like those which the Pride and Wings currently operated in formation—it was absurd to believe that one ship could actually ‘cover’ its ally’s shield facing by absorbing punishment for it, since it was essentially impossible to physically interdict one ship in front of another. But what Sarkozi could do with the Elysium’s Wings was increase their combined counterattack capability against the Rim Fleet’s ships, should those ships decide to maneuver for an advantageous arc against the Pride’s most vulnerable facing.

  A series of impacts landed on the Pride’s starboard shields, and the Shields Operator reported, “Multiple hits to the starboard shields; current strength at 74% and holding.”

  Middleton knew he needed to get his bow back on the enemy, since his broadsides had literally zero fire capability. There had originally been a sparse assortment of light lasers and particle cannons mounted there, but those weapons had apparently been of Imperial design. So, like supposedly all Imperial assets, they had been reclaimed during the Imperial Withdrawal.

  The Pride’s stern had a pair of turret-mounted heavy lasers with modest firing arcs which, while less than game-changing, would at least allow for the possibility of inflicting a measurable wound on their adversaries while Garibaldi’s people worked on the forward shields.

  “Enemy vessels closing to short range, Captain,” the Tactical Officer reported. Middleton knew that the enemy’s fire would only intensify the closer they got, and he was currently unable to present a credible counterattack against them.

  The Elysium’s Wings unleashed one of its own broadside volleys before rolling and immediately firing the other at the oncoming Corvette. The enemy vessel’s shields dipped slightly, but Sarkozi’s textbook execution of the maneuver brought a tight smile to Middleton’s lips.

  Of course, Captain Raubach’s wingmen immediately did likewise, and the Pride of Prometheus’ Shields Operator reported, “Starboard broadside at 52%, Captain. No spotting detected.”

  “Damage to the Wings?” Middleton demanded of his Tactical Officer, and as he did so he realized he was no longer checking his chair’s console for updates. It was a thought he pushed from his mind as quickly as he could while waiting for the man’s reply.

  “No damage, Captain,” the man reported. “The Rim Fleet vessels have only fired on us.”

  “Thank Murphy for small miracles,” Middleton muttered as he decided to employ his chair’s console for some quick calculations. At their current rate of speed, they would pass the enemy group in less than three minutes. That much time under Captain Raubach’s continuous fire would almost certainly diminish the strength of the Pride’s broadside shields to critical lows. “Status of forward shields?” he demanded of the Shields operator.

  “Engineering crews have replaced the damaged relays,” the operator reported, “but are having some trouble re-balancing the grid. The Chief’s estimated time to finish repairs is seven minutes.”

  Middleton knew that Garibaldi’s estimate was questionable, but this time it was questionably short rather than long. “Helm, present our stern to the wounded Corvette,” he ordered, knowing it was the only logical choice left to him.

  It was entirely possible that Captain Raubach had a few tricks of his own, even though thus far the battle had unfolded well within the parameters the simulations would have predicted. Captain Middleton needed to let his stern shields soak up some damage so his broadsides could receive whatever last-minute surprises his opponent had in store.

  The stern of the Hydra-class Medium Cruiser came around to face the enemy squadron, and as soon as they were within firing position both stern-mounted heavy lasers blasted the shields of the Number One Corvette. Those shields sagged to the point its icon began flashing yellow on the tactical readout.

  “Number One Corvette’s forward shields are down to 36% with moderate spotting,” the Tactical Officer reported. “She’s rolling to present her broadside, but maintaining approach vector and formation with the Dämmerung.”

  The Dämmerung fired every bit of its arsenal it could bring to bear, and the Pride’s stern shield indicators flashed red. Needing no verbal report from the Shields Operator, Middleton barked, “Helm, present the port facing!”

  “Aye, Captain,” Jersey acknowledged, even though Middleton could already tell he had begun to do so before receiving the order. Another volley of fire, this from the two Corvettes, landed home on the Pride’s port shields and caused the grav-plates to temporarily fluctuate just enough that Middleton’s feet came up briefly off the deck, before audibly slapping back down again.

  “We’ll pass through the enemy formation in twenty seconds,” the Tactical Officer reported just as the stern lasers hammered into the Number One Corvette’s broadside shields. “Minimal damage reported,” he added with muted satisfaction. “Number One Corvette is increasing forward velocity; looks like they’re trying to put some distance between themselves and our guns.”

  “Two on two, then,” Middleton grudged, having hoped to force the third Corvette out of the fig
ht a minute earlier, “not quite even, but we’ll take it. Helm,” he said sharply, “prepare to roll and present our starboard broadside as soon as they pass by.”

  Then the icons of Middleton’s two ships briefly aligned with the Dämmerung’s on the main viewer, and he found himself holding his breath until the icons began to slowly drift apart for the first time during the engagement.

  The lights on the bridge flickered briefly as the Dämmerung rolled while passing almost directly above the Pride of Prometheus, in order to unleash the full power of its weaponry in as short an interval as possible. Both of its flanking Corvettes did likewise from their positions some distance away, and Middleton watched as Jersey expertly rolled the ship to present the Heavy Destroyer, and its as-yet-undamaged Corvette wingman, with the Pride’s more stable starboard shields.

  Middleton had completely ignored the Dämmerung to this point in the battle, because its shields could soak more damage than two Corvettes combined—it was better to pick off the smaller fry before going after the big fish, especially give the Pride of Prometheus’ peculiar strengths and weaknesses.

  One on one, Middleton’s ship could out-throw any vessel of her class currently operating in the Spineward Sectors. In fact, the Hydra/Hammerhead class had initially been billed as a Heavy Cruiser, but had been re-designated not long after its implementation throughout the Spine. Even so, against multiple vessels with superior maneuverability and similar fighting range, its lack of robust armament to cover its flanks became a critical weakness which nearly any tandem of warships could exploit to deadly effect.

  The fleeing Corvette’s stern armaments were minimal and while they pecked away at the Pride’s stern shields, but Middleton knew they would create no immediate danger. Given the enemy ship’s current formation and proximity, it had become impossible to keep all three vessels on the same facing.

  “Captain,” the Tactical Officer said, “if we come about and drive directly at the planet, we can bring those other two Starfire groups to bear on the enemy ships.”

  “Once our forward shields come back up, I have every intention of doing just that,” Middleton assured the young man before opening a channel to the Chief Engineer. “Garibaldi, I need a status update on those shields.”

  “We’re on schedule, Captain,” Garibaldi replied before the com-link was filled with the sound of an explosion. “Give us two more minutes and we’ll have the grid re-aligned for another run. I’m guessing the shields will be just over half capacity when we’re done.”

  “Good work, Chief,” Middleton replied before severing the connection.

  The Pride shuddered under the weight of another volley, and the lights flickered as the grav-plates fluctuated yet again. “Starboard shields at 42% and holding, Captain.”

  “Captain,” the Sensors operator nearly leapt out of her chair, “incoming point transfers detected!”

  “Give me a breakdown,” he snapped impatiently.

  “I’m reading three vessels,” she replied as the tactical overlay added three icons on the opposite side of the system. “Two CR-72 Corvettes…and one Defiance-class Battleship,” she added in disbelief, “the newcomers are on course to join the engagement, Captain.”

  Middleton actually felt the air escape his lungs as the reality of his situation sank in. The Defiance class was one of the most well-rounded, powerful capital ships ever produced in the Spine, but only a handful had been manufactured and deployed before the firm developing them had been bought out by the Cornwallis-Raubach consortium some forty years earlier.

  It seemed that Captain Raubach had, in fact, brought sufficient resources to assure victory—but Middleton wasn’t going to give up just because there was no reasonable chance of victory. After all, he thought to himself, I rather enjoy being an unreasonable person.

  “Helm, come about and execute a maximum burn on my engines,” he ordered coldly. “Tell the Wings to stay on our flank; we’re going to drive Raubach into those two remaining Starfire clusters near the planet, but we’re only going to get one shot at it before those wounded Corvettes get back into the fight and circle us like vultures—to say nothing of the newcoming vessels.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Jersey replied evenly as he adjusted the course of the Pride.

  “The Chief reports final repairs are completed to the forward shield array, Captain,” the Damage Control operator reported no less than ten seconds after they had begun their maximum engine burn in pursuit of the enemy vessels.

  “Tell him to evacuate his people from the forward hull,” Middleton ordered. “Initiate lockdown in the gun deck, and secure the forward sections by sealing all pressure doors. Things are about to get hairy, people, and I don’t want unnecessary casualties.”

  “Relaying orders now, Captain,” the operator acknowledged.

  “Incoming transmission from the Dämmerung, Captain,” reported the Comm. stander stationed beside Fei Long.

  “Open the channel,” Middleton said stiffly as he resumed his rigid posture.

  The face of Captain James Raubach IV filled the viewer, and his mouth was twisted contemptuously as he shook his head. “Middleton, you actually had me thinking you did have some sort of fleet backing you up after that initial volley,” he said piteously. “It’s not often I bite on a feint like that, so I’d like to offer my congratulations before I pound your oversized tin can into scrap. But you know what they say, ‘fool me once, shame on you’,” he said as he continued to shake his head emphatically. “There is no fooling me twice, Captain; you no more have a Defiance-class Battleship at your beck and call than I have an Imperial Command Carrier at mine. Drop the smoke and mirrors routine, and I’ll go easy on your crew, but one way or another that Corvette is coming with me after your ship’s been slagged by my guns.”

  “Captain Raubach,” Middleton began with a confident grin, after finally deducing who it was that the newcoming ships must have belonged to, “I was just about to make the same, generous offer to you. Tell your ships to stand down, and I promise the MSP will see them transported to the nearest Core World to await a more tempered measure of justice than we—or the crew aboard these inbound ships—are likely to afford the group responsible for the atrocities committed in this system.”

  Raubach snorted derisively. “I admire a man who sticks to his guns,” he said with a grudging nod, “and I suppose I should be thanking you—while I still have the chance.”

  Middleton’s eyebrow arched slightly. “Thanking me?” he repeated in open confusion.

  The other man nodded. “A full honors burial and posthumous commendation for my late wife, Captain Meisha Raubach, are a Hades of a lot more affordable than the fifty-fifty split she would have gotten in our inevitable divorce,” he said smugly. “Goodbye, Captain Middleton,” he added with finality before nodding to someone off-screen, after which the Pride of Prometheus was rocked by another incoming volley of fire as the connection cut out.

  “Forward shields down to 44%, Captain,” the operator reported, “working to correct minor spotting.”

  “Hard at them, Helm,” Middleton growled fiercely, knowing that he could still salvage a victory here. He only hoped that the newcomers had been monitoring the recent back-and-forth, and that they wouldn’t tip their hand until they were in position to tip the scales. “Tactical, tell the gun deck to commence firing on the Dämmerung; they are to ignore all other targets.”

  “Firing on the Dämmerung, aye,” the Tactical Officer reported before another series of impacts struck home on the Pride’s dwindling shields.

  It took several minutes for the Pride of Prometheus to reverse its momentum and begin bearing down on the enemy vessels, by which time they had already gone to medium tactical range, which actually favored the Pride—for the time being.

  “Captain, the wounded Corvettes are on an intercept course,” the Sensors operator reported. “Their shields have been stabilized; estimated time to their firing range, twelve minutes.”

  “Steady on,
Helm,” Middleton said in a carrying voice after another volley shook his ship, bringing their forward shields down to critically low levels. Another volley, or two at the most, and those shields would collapse entirely, leaving nothing but the Pride’s formidable reinforced armor plating to absorb the damage. But no armor, outside of the strongest Imperial Locsium crystal, could repel heavy weaponry for long before succumbing to the uncompromising laws of physics.

  “If the enemy ships continue on their current course,” Fei Long interjected, “we can maneuver the Starfire missiles to firing position within six minutes—on your order, Captain,” he added awkwardly, with his lack of military training and discipline painfully obvious to all on the bridge.

  “As soon as the Dämmerung is in range, I want those Starfires to coordinate with the gun deck to provide maximum simultaneous fire,” Middleton instructed the young man, causing the boy to nod in acknowledgment before going back to work.

  The enemy ships continued to maneuver, with the Dämmerung essentially allowing its momentum to carry it toward the planet while tumbling its body in a controlled sequence to bring maximum firepower to bear on Middleton’s increasingly abused vessel. Meanwhile, its flanking Corvette went out wide to gain a superior firing angle on the Pride’s flanks. And with two more Corvettes just minutes away from re-entering the fray, Captain Middleton knew it was now or never if they were to land a decisive blow against Raubach’s squadron.

  “Forward shields have collapsed, Captain,” reported the Shields operator, “minor damage to the forward hull reported.”

  “I’m getting dangerous energy fluctuations from Reactor Number Two, Captain,” reported the Engineering petty officer from his console, “Chief Garibaldi recommends we decrease engine output to 60% to avoid a core meltdown.”

  “Tell the Chief to baby it as long as he can, and eject it when he is no longer able to do so,” Middleton snapped as another volley of fire smashed into the Pride’s bow. “Besides,” he added with certainty in a raised voice, “we’re not going to need all three reactors after our second batch of Starfires come into play.”