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

by Caleb Wachter

  Just then the lead vessel of the oncoming trio had its icon flash red, signaling that it had been grievously damaged.

  “The first destroyer is showing major fluctuations on its power grid like nothing I’ve ever seen. They might be going critical,” Sensors speculated.

  “The destroyers are showing similar power surges; they’re returning fire,” Sarkozy reported as the battle cruiser’s shields visibly flared. “I’m reading shield collapse along the battle cruiser’s dorsal facing; she’s rolling to present her ventral side.”

  The chime on his chair signaled an incoming com-link, and Middleton glanced down to see it was from Lu Bu. “Report, Lancer.”

  “Doctor Middleton is transferred to brig, Captain,” the young woman replied.

  He had seen the status update flash across his chair’s console when the Master at Arms had received the Doctor into his custody, but he had wanted the young woman to report to him directly regardless. “Thank you, Lancer; get down to the cargo bay and help the other Lancers.”

  “Yes, Captain,” she replied before he severed the link.

  “Continue on course, Helm,” Middleton ordered, “I want to add our guns to the fight as soon as possible.” He then flicked his com-link on as he activated the main speakers inside the cargo bay. “Mr. Fei, where are my missiles!?”

  Fei Long deftly activated his wrist-mounted com-link and replied, “Four missiles are loaded on the shuttle, Captain. I estimate another twelve minutes before we have loaded all ten weapons onto the craft,” he said confidently.

  Just then Corporal Gnuko fell over unexpectedly, dropping the nose of the missile which he and the Tracto-ans had been maneuvering into the shuttle’s cramped cabin and causing Fei Long to wince at such careless handling of a live, thermonuclear device.

  “Perhaps thirteen minutes, Captain,” he corrected, attempting to relay the most accurate information possible as he maneuvered the grav-cart next to the makeshift rack the crew had built to hold the Starfire missiles.

  “Why are you loading them onto the shuttle?” demanded the Captain. “I want them dropped out of the cargo bay, Mr. Fei, not prepared for transfer.”

  “I appreciate your demands, Captain,” Fei Long replied calmly as he unclamped the safety latches holding the next missile in place as the grav-cart slowly rose in the air to accommodate the four meter long, half-meter in diameter device’s not-insignificant bulk. “But, to give you the short version, deployment will require manual target acquisition and programming due to the heavy jamming signal which the enemy vessels are putting out. Seeing as only I am capable of doing this, I will accompany the missiles on board the shuttle before manually assigning targets and releasing them.”

  There was a brief pause. “If that was the short version, assume I’ll never require the long one, Mr. Fei,” Middleton said eventually. “Have the pilot bring you back as quickly as possible when you’ve finished deploying the weapons.”

  Fei Long hesitated before replying, “Understood, Captain.” The channel went dead and Fei Long breathed a sigh of relief at still being able to breathe at all, following his utterance of a borderline falsehood. The device implanted in his brain made such an infraction a potentially deadly act, but Fei Long had not wished to trouble his Captain with such a trivial matter as the one he had yet to deal with regarding the shuttle’s assigned pilot.

  The young man risked a glance at the pilot, whose unconscious body was still propped up against the side of the craft. The pilot had slipped during the loading of the first missile and struck his unprotected head against the edge of the ramp. The injury did not appear serious, but he had not yet regained consciousness in any capacity.

  “Lu,” he heard Gnuko snap, “get over here and lend a hand, for Murphy’s sake.”

  Fei Long felt a thrill course through his body at hearing that the young Lancer had arrived in the cargo bay. But he fought down his base, animal urges as he knew that they would do nothing but hinder his efforts to assist the crew he had come to think of as his family—and right now that family, very much unlike the one of his birth, desperately needed him.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Lu Bu replied from the doorway just as Fei Long finished prepping the fifth missile for transfer, and he noted—with hopefully-concealed appreciation—just how tightly her armor, Red Hare, hugged the broad, powerful lines of her body.

  Snapping his thoughts back into focus, Fei Long called over the din, “Missile ready, Sergeant.” Just then a series of klaxons went off overhead, signaling incoming fire.

  A second later the ship was rocked by an impact, and it was only by blind luck that Fei Long managed to stop the missile from crashing into the floor as his hand fell on the grav-cart’s control and managed to compensate for the sudden shift in the ship’s attitude.

  Then he looked up and saw that it hadn’t been totally blind luck—Lu Bu had grabbed hold of the missile’s far end and using her incredibly powerful physique, physically held the end of the twelve hundred pound device in place as the grav-cart stabilized under the new weight distribution.

  “Thank you,” Fei Long said shortly as his eyes lingered on her hips for a moment before he directed the grav-cart to move over to the shuttle’s loading ramp, down which Gnuko and the three surviving Tracto-an Lancers were only now descending after successfully loading the fourth weapon.

  Lu Bu helped him direct the sleek, new-style grav-cart into position, after which time she assisted the other Lancers in maneuvering it into position on the stack of missiles already inside. Fei Long then returned the grav-cart to the metal rack containing the other half of the Starfire missiles.

  “Forward shields at 35%, Captain,” the Shields operator reported.

  “Status of the battle cruiser?” the Captain demanded.

  “Their ventral shields are holding against the smaller weapons the enemy are bringing to bear,” Sarkozy reported. “I can’t be precise, but they’re still over half strength on that facing and at maximum on the bow and stern, while the dorsal facing is recharging.” The spherical representation of the Pride of Prometheus’ effective firing range slowly moved forward until the nearest of the three enemy vessels was just within it, and Sarkozy reported, “Firing range achieved, Captain.”

  “Helm, provide a firing window for the forward battery,” Middleton ordered.

  “Window open in ten seconds, Captain,” Jersey replied gruffly.

  The bow of the Pride swept around slowly as the ship briefly shifted course out of its proscribed vector which would move it to provide support for the droid battle cruiser.

  The forward batteries fired in unison less than a second after the Pride’s bearing stabilized, and less than a second after they had fired, Commander Jersey returned the vessel to its original course.

  “Seven for ten, Captain,” Sarkozy reported before adding bitterly, “enemy shields are holding. No damage detected.”

  “Captain,” Jardine called in a raised voice, “I’m getting strange signals from the wounded destroyer. It looks like—“

  “I’m reading multiple inbound missiles from that ship, Captain!” the Sensors operator shrilled. “Ten—twenty—thirty six distinct, inbound objects.”

  “Verify that count,” Middleton said heavily, knowing full well that thirty six Starfire missiles would easily destroy the Pride of Prometheus in its current state.

  “Count confirmed, sir,” the operator reported.

  “Those aren’t missiles, Captain,” Jardine interrupted, and when Middleton turned to face him the Comm. Officer’s skin had turned ashen. “They’re ships.”

  “What?” demanded Middleton.

  “Confirmed, Captain,” Sarkozy piped in as she slid over to the Sensors station, “we’re reading individual shields, drives, comm. traffic, the works; they share the same twelve-sided design as the destroyers, but measure ten meters across and appear to have launched from the damaged warship.”

  Just then the damaged destroyer’s icon flashed red several times before
going grey. “The first destroyer is gone, Captain; its point transfer system went critical just after those smaller ships cleared the vicinity.”

  “Are they lifeboats of some kind?” Middleton asked during a rare instance of his mouth working faster than his mind. He immediately rebuked his subconscious for seeking the easy way out of their current circumstances.

  “Negative,” Sarkozy said after returning to her Tactical group, “they look more like fighters, judging by their acceleration and energy output.”

  Middleton felt the urge to squirm but resisted. The one thing the Pride of Prometheus was completely ill-equipped to deal with was a full wing of fighters, which could easily swarm the larger, slower Cruiser and pick it apart while staying clear of her big guns’ firing arc.

  “Let’s prime the point defense turrets,” he said, as though it was necessary, “and pray to the Saint our big guns can pick them off before they get here.”

  “The battle cruiser is firing its primary weapon,” the Sensors operator reported, and Captain Middleton looked up to the tactical overlay to see the second destroyer’s icon flash red before going grey. “Target vessel is destroyed, Captain; no fighter launches detected.”

  Before anyone could celebrate the total destruction of the second ship, the icon of the battle cruiser flashed red several times, making Middleton’s stomach turn.

  “The remaining destroyer has fired its main weapon,” Sarkozy reported. “The battle cruiser’s shields have completely collapsed and I’m seeing structural damage to their ventral hull. Those fighters are closing fast on the battle cruiser’s position—ETA twelve minutes.”

  “Engage the fighters,” Middleton ordered, and Commander Jersey began to do precisely that as the Pride adjusted its course and speed to move away from the faltering battle cruiser. “That cruiser’s going to have to handle the destroyer on its own.”

  “If the destroyer fires its primary weapon again,” Sarkozy said after performing some calculations, “it appears the battle cruiser will sustain, at minimum, critical damage and be knocked out of the fight.”

  “If those fighters close to grips with either of our ships, it’s only a countdown to the inevitable,” Middleton countered, knowing full well that the Tactical Officer was correct. “We’re just going to have to hope our wingman’s got enough left in the tank to knock the destroyer’s primary weapon offline before it can fire again.”

  “The interval between shots of those siege weapons, combined with the continued fire being exchanged, suggests—“ Sarkozy began.

  “I know the situation, Ensign,” Middleton cut her off before activating his com-link. “Mr. Fei, I need an update.”

  Lu Bu grunted with effort as she slid the final missile into the shuttlecraft, wiping the sweat from her brow as she saw Corporal Gnuko—and even Peleus—begin to tremble from the extreme exertion of the past few minutes.

  “The missiles are loaded aboard the shuttle, Captain,” the young man replied a few seconds after Lu Bu and her companions had finished loading the final missile. “We will launch in one minute; I require a package of targets to program once we have cleared the shuttle.” A moment later, Fei Long looked down at his com-link and nodded, “I have received the package, Captain; I estimate the weapons will fire in seven minutes.”

  Lu Bu cast a doubtful look at the still-unconscious shuttle pilot, who Atticus was dragging into the shuttle via the side door. “We need new pilot,” she said in Confederation Standard.

  “Of that, I am aware,” Fei Long replied curtly as he jumped up on top of the first row of missiles before sliding toward the cockpit with a look of determination.

  “You are not rated for this craft,” she snapped in her native tongue while Corporal Gnuko entered the cabin via the rear, cargo ramp. “Captain Middleton must have his best pilot on this mission; we should wait for a replacement.”

  “I assure you that I have logged over three hundred hours in various small craft cockpit configurations,” Fei Long riposted. “I am more than qualified to fly this mission.”

  “You?” she scoffed as she clambered over the missiles while the cargo ramp slowly raised behind the four of them—five, including the unconscious pilot. “You have never flown any spacecraft; I have read your file!”

  “I confess my only experience is in virtual sims operating at three hundred percent regular speed. Still…I am pleasantly surprised to find you have been reading up on me,” he quipped as he slotted into the co-pilot’s chair.

  She felt herself go red-faced at his suggestion and slapped the back of his head with probably more force than she should have. “I have interfaced with this craft, and of the four conscious crewmembers aboard the shuttle, my reflexes are best and I am rated for emergency operation of such a vehicle.”

  “Why do you think I chose this chair?” he said with an exasperated sigh as he rubbed the back of his head before gesturing toward the pilot’s chair. A moment later, Fei Long’s fingers flicked across the various switches and control icons which put the shuttle through its pre-flight routine, and there was an audible hum as the systems came online.

  Lu Bu strapped into the pilot’s chair and assisted in the pre-flight routine wordlessly, casting occasional glances over at Fei Long as he carried out his portion of the procedure.

  Corporal Gnuko ducked his head into the cockpit and proffered a pair of head bags with attached com-link ear buds before asking hesitantly, “Are you sure you two can fly this thing?”

  “Yes,” Lu Bu snapped as she snatched a head bag and placed it over her face, after which she placed the ear bud and gave it a test. She then activated the self-sealing apparatus to lock behind her jaw, ears and occipital bone, at which time it sealed and she began to breathe her own recycled air.

  Fei Long did likewise, and when he spoke she found his irritating voice to be thankfully muffled, “Shuttlecraft Galileo making emergency liftoff in twenty seconds; all personnel are to evacuate the shuttle bay. Repeat: evacuate shuttle bay in sixteen seconds in preparation for rapid decompression.”

  The seconds ticked by, and the light above the cockpit’s main viewport flashed yellow before turning green, which said the shuttle bay was now cleared for an emergency liftoff.

  Lu Bu pulled back on the manual controls and the craft lifted a half meter from the deck as the twin set of doors at the shuttle bay’s exit opened, causing a rush of air as the remnants of atmosphere inside the chamber escaped through the rapidly opening airlock doors.

  “Commencing flight,” Lu Bu said, having forgotten the actual phrase she was supposed to use as she twisted the left side of the manual interface and spurring the craft forward.

  They exited the Pride of Prometheus’ shuttle bay and Lu Bu immediately banked wide, in an attempt to get clear of the ship’s flare-zone—the immediate vicinity surrounding an actively-shielded vessel—so as to avoid any potential redirected, incoming weapons fire from catching the Galileo in the dissipation wave caused by impact on a warship’s shields.

  She risked a glance at the Pride of Prometheus, for the first time having a chance to see their vessel’s exterior with her own eyes. The ship was even more impressive to the naked eye than its technical schematics and scantlings could ever convey, and she felt a surge of pride as its forward batteries fired in rapid succession, with each of the ten heavy lasers sending a blast of fiery red shot forward as the Pride’s engines burned with a bluish-green light.

  “Where do we deploy the missiles?” she asked in their native tongue, knowing that perfect communication was more important than protocol in this particular circumstance.

  “Anywhere,” Fei Long replied as he undid the harness which secured him to the chair, “we are already well within the tactical range of these devices. Cut the engines while we prepare to deploy the missiles.” He scampered out of the cargo bay and withdrew a data slate from his pocket as Lu Bu cut the engines.

  They made their way into the cabin, and found that Gnuko and Peleus had already removed the ac
cess panels from each missile. Fei Long set down beside the first missile and made a hard connection between it and his data slate, which had yet another type of cable connected to it. He finished more quickly than she thought possible, and as he moved to the next unit Gnuko made to replace the access panel.

  “There is no need, Sergeant,” Fei Long said dismissively as he repeated the process, which took him ten seconds per missile. When he was finished he gestured for the Sergeant to open the cargo ramp, and wrapped his arm around a nearby cargo net. Lu Bu and Peleus did likewise, while Gnuko went to the control panel and began the gradual decompression cycle of the cabin. Normally they would have stored the atmospheric gases in the shuttle’s reserve tanks, but that process would have taken several minutes. So there was a gradually increasing rush of air as the ramp lowered slowly, but after just a few seconds the effect diminished until dissipating entirely, and the ramp lowered completely.

  “Do we need to point these things in a certain direction?” Gnuko asked over their ear bud com-links after the door had opened.

  “Simply slide them out one by one,” Fei Long urged, “and keep them as straight as possible. The onboard guidance systems will do the rest after they are activated. We must hurry, however,” he added almost as an afterthought, “they are on a manual countdown of two minutes before their drives will ignite.”

  Needing no further encouragement, the three Lancers aboard the shuttle forcibly shoved each missile out the back of the shuttle, which created a rather ominous sight. After each missile cleared the grav-plates of the shuttle, they floated directly behind the craft—with their noses pointed directly at the tiny, all-too-vulnerable shuttle.

  When the tenth missile was out, Lu Bu turned and entered the cockpit, finding Fei Long had already done so. Gnuko closed the cargo door, and a few moments after the seals had locked down, the cabin began to fill with life-giving atmosphere.