Up The Middle (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  “Yes, Captain,” Fei Long replied before handing off his duties to a nearby petty officer and egressing the bridge with a measure of haste which Middleton found faintly comforting.

  “Captain?” Sarkozi asked after the young man had left the bridge.

  “Get on the line with Garibaldi,” Middleton said grimly. “As soon as he’s certain the engines won’t melt down without his direct supervision, you’re to call an emergency senior staff meeting.”

  Sarkozi was clearly curious, but her professionalism won out as she acknowledged with a curt nod and made her way to the Engineering console.

  Captain Middleton took the opportunity during the next few minutes to conduct a series of tactical simulations, but the outcome of each was precisely the same.

  When Sarkozi reported that Garibaldi could step away from the engines for a few minutes, Middleton purposefully made his way to the conference room to meet with the ship’s top officers.

  It seemed the enemy had turned the tables on him, but he wasn’t about to concede defeat.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Captain Middleton said before even half of the officers had been seated. The only officer who was absent from the meeting was Lieutenant Sarkozi; even with the enemy corvette retreating, the ship was still set to Condition One and Middleton knew that a steady hand was needed on the bridge. Mr. Fei was also absent, owing to his particular set of orders which very well may prove pivotal to the final outcome. “I’ll spare you all the formalities; in no more than three hours and two minutes, we can expect a familiar enemy to jump into this system. Our Lancers,” he continued with a deliberate nod of acknowledgment to Sergeant Gnuko, “may well have saved us from outright destruction from a surprise attack carried out by an elite force. In short, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, feeling his ears burn as he spoke, “I ran us headlong into a trap and it was only due to the Sergeant’s tireless efforts that we’re able to have this meeting.”

  “Just doing our duty, sir,” Gnuko said deferentially, but Middleton knew that his own words had been nothing but accurate and that the Lancer contingent deserved recognition for their fine work.

  But this was neither the time nor the place for such recognition, so the Pride’s captain turned to Chief Garibaldi without another word on the matter. “How are the engines, Chief?”

  Garibaldi shook his head doubtfully. “We’ve got Number One at 100%, but Number Two is shot until we can put in for significant repairs. Number three looks like it’ll hold together, but I can’t guarantee for how long. These old ships weren’t built with redundancy in mind, they were more concerned with cutting costs. So in this case the damage to Number Two is going to affect Number Three. I can’t say how much just yet, but I wouldn’t go redlining it any time soon—and that’s not just my typically conservative nature talking,” he added with a pointed look, “you push them any harder and we could see a cascade failure of the central coolant system. That means no more engines, no more guns, and no more shields until the entire thing gets replaced at drydock—assuming we get a tow to the nearest one.”

  “Can we count on your 70% engine output estimate for the next twelve hours?” Middleton pressed, referring to a damage report the Chief had filed minutes after the explosion which had taken out the primary heat sinks for engine number two.

  “If you give me another two hours, I can give you 70% for that time frame,” the Chief replied confidently.

  “You’ve got the two hours,” Middleton said, feeling more than a little relieved at Garibaldi’s prognosis. He turned to the conference room’s primary view screen and called up an image taken by the Pride several months earlier. “Just before the mining ship was destroyed,” he chewed on the word as it came out, knowing it had been nothing but a ruse, “it sent a message using ComStat frequencies. I have little doubt that message was a signal indicating that we had arrived, and that a nearby ship should jump into the system as soon as it received the message.”

  Eyebrows rose in unison around the table and even Jo appeared incredulous at Middleton’s revelation. But he needed to get the meeting over with as quickly as possible, so he enlarged the image until its identifying markings and registry were plainly visible.

  “You all remember the Dämmerung,” he said as he recalled the elaborate trap which he had sprung on the cutting edge Heavy Destroyer during their previous excursion into the Sector.

  Middleton’s crew very nearly defeated not only the Heavy Destroyer, but also a Light Destroyer and a handful of Corvettes during the fight by placing dozens of Starfire missiles throughout the area and using them to knock several vessels out of the fight at the outset. But Middleton had learned that Captain Raubach, the son of the Commodore who commanded a significant portion of the Rim Fleet in the area, had a trick or two up his own sleeve.

  Had it not been for the timely arrival of a Defiance-class Battleship from a world which had been affected by widespread mutinies—orchestrated by none other than the Raubach family—the Dämmerung would have proven victorious that day by using its superior speed and weapons range to pick the Pride apart. It might have taken hours, but it was as certain of an outcome as Middleton had ever encountered during his brief tenure as captain of a warship.

  “There’s only one group we know of which is operating in this Sector, has access to the resources and organization to pull off an ambush like we just walked into, and has even the slightest chance of utilizing the ComStat network,” he continued, and the mood around the room darkened as his officers, one by one, realized what the Dämmerung’s presence would mean to the crew of the aged, lumbering, now-hamstrung Pride of Prometheus, “and that group is under command of Commodore Raubach.”

  “Can we jump out?” Jo asked, and Middleton was slightly surprised to hear her voice first among the officers.

  “It’s possible,” Middleton allowed, “but our jump cycle would require us to elude the Dämmerung for three hours after they arrived in-system, and with our diminished engine output—”

  “No gamble,” Toto rumbled, and a handful of heads turned to face the Sundered with looks of confusion, “must fight.”

  But Middleton understood his Tactical Officer perfectly well. “Toto’s right,” he said with a short nod, “if we burn for the hyper limit without knowing where the Dämmerung is jumping in from—thereby not knowing approximately where they’ll appear—we’d be gambling not only with our ship and our lives, but also with the fate of our mission. I’ve run the projections,” he said, sweeping the assemblage darkly, “and tucking tail would only buy us a thirty percent chance of escape even if the Dämmerung is the only ship that jumps in. If there’s another ship bigger than that Corvette out there,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “that arrives at the same time as the Dämmerung then the odds go down so far as to be unworthy of mention.”

  “A Soyuz-class Heavy Destroyer is that far out of our league?” Garibaldi asked in apparently genuine amazement.

  “Long range, fast engines,” Toto said before the captain could reply, “Pride slow; heavy shields, heavy weapons, but too slow.”

  “That would be the long and short of it,” Middleton agreed. “These old cruisers were built for formation fighting where they could cover each other and pin opponents with numbers. In a wide-open, one-on-one duel, we’re no match for a newer, faster, longer-gunned ship like the Dämmerung.”

  Silence fell over the room for several seconds before Garibaldi clucked his tongue and sighed in mock exasperation. His body language suggested that he was more irritated than anything else as he said, “I suppose this is the part where you tell us about your grand strategy?”

  Placing his knuckles down on the table, Middleton shook his head emphatically. “There’s no easy way out of this; when the Dämmerung arrives, our only hope is that she’s the heaviest-hitting ship we’ll have to deal with. If she is, and if we make the necessary preparations…” he trailed off, “I’d say our odds are fifty-fifty.”

  “How, exactly, did tho
se Marines get onto the hull undetected?” Garibaldi asked into the brief lull.

  “I’ve heard of Imperials using giant gravity sleds with stealth propulsion units that could penetrate shields,” Gnuko said doubtfully, “but I thought those were just rumors—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Middleton said coldly, “what matters is that our Lancers foiled their attempt to completely destroy our engines. That means we’ve still got a chance. But I’m not going to lie to anyone here; this isn’t going to be any fun…even if we catch a few breaks.”

  “Battle protocol commands we low orbit outer planet to limit enemy fire arcs,” Toto rumbled, and again Middleton found himself appreciating the uplift’s sense of priority.

  “That’s what the book says,” the Pride’s commanding officer agreed, all-too-aware of standard tactics called for in their present situation, “but Captain Raubach also knows the book.” Middleton felt his lip curl as he prepared to lay out his strategy, “Which means that, aside from tucking tail and running, following the book is the last thing we should do.”

  Chapter XXV: On the Ropes

  “T-minus eight minutes, Captain,” Lieutenant Sarkozi reported in her usual, professional, tone. Captain Middleton only hoped that the rest of the bridge crew took as much comfort in her increasingly cool demeanor as he did. “All units deployed and in position.”

  Middleton nodded his acknowledgment before turning to Toto, whose cybernetic implants flashed hypnotically around the patchy sections of skin on his skull. “Your family’s contributions won’t be forgotten, Tactical,” he said after making eye contact with the Sundered.

  The ape man narrowed his eyes briefly before a harsh, deep, barking sound escaped his lips and Middleton quickly recognized the display as some form of laughter. “No sacrifice, no life,” the uplift shrugged.

  “True enough,” the captain agreed before activating his chair’s com-link and connecting with Mr. Fei, who had retreated to his quarters to work on his potentially crucial project. “Mr. Fei, a status update if you please.”

  A few seconds passed in silence before a harsh wave of static came through the chair’s speakers, followed by Fei Long saying, “My apologies, Captain; I left the com-link beneath some tools and—“

  “A status update,” Middleton repeated forcefully before relaxing and adding, “if you please.”

  “Of course, Captain,” Fei Long gushed. “The architecture is, surprisingly, more susceptible than I had anticipated. I expect to be completed in no more than one hour.”

  Middleton heard a short sigh of relief escape his lips before he collected himself, straightened in his chair, and nodded to no one in particular. “Very good, Mr. Fei; carry on.”

  “Yes, Captain,” the young man replied before the connection was cut.

  Middleton flipped to the Lancer command channel. “Sergeant Gnuko, are your teams in position?”

  A few seconds passed before Middleton received his reply. “We’re locked and loaded, Captain; ready to deploy on your order.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Middleton said evenly.

  “We’ll carry the ball when called, Captain,” Gnuko replied with a hint of indignation in his voice.

  Half-smiling at the Sergeant’s response, Middleton had to suppress a chuckle. “Good hunting, Sergeant,” the captain said before cutting the connection.

  “Enemy corvette is maintaining position to the stellar north,” Sarkozi reported needlessly, but Middleton appreciated her desire to maintain dialogue during these final, tense, moments. “They’re still outside of our extreme range.”

  Middleton checked the countdown for the earliest point at which the Dämmerung could jump into the system and saw that forty seconds remained. If Captain James Raubach was the man Middleton thought him to be, he expected that arrival to occur within seconds of the clock reaching zero.

  The final seconds ticked down, and the Pride’s captain considered making some sort of speech to his anxious crew. But speeches, while sometimes necessary, had never been to his liking. So he watched the countdown run to zero, along with the rest of the bridge crew, and no more than three seconds after the absolute earliest that the Dämmerung could have arrived in-system did Hephaestion report, “There is a point transfer occurring at the system’s edge.”

  It wasn’t the most succinct version of the confirmation which had played itself in Middleton’s mind over the previous hour of waiting, but he needed no further information to conclude that their enemy had arrived for what they thought would be the killing blow.

  “Confirm the ship’s profile,” Lieutenant Sarkozi said sharply as she made her way to the Sensors station.

  “Confirming,” Hephaestion acknowledged as the Pride’s XO arrived at his station.

  “The ship is squawking the same identification codes in the ship’s database, sir,” reported the petty officer who had taken over at Comm. for Fei Long.

  “Power profile, acceleration, and auto-handshake protocols all match, Captain,” reported Hephaestion. “It’s the Dämmerung.”

  Middleton nodded after his XO made brief eye contact to silently confirm what they already knew. “Thank you, Sensors,” he said as he opened a channel to Engineering. “Mikey, it’s time.”

  “We’re ready down here, Captain,” answered the voice of his long-time friend.

  “Incoming transmission, Captain,” reported Comm. “It’s from Captain Raubach…and he’s asking for you by name.”

  The Pride’s commander had expected the hail, and despite the fact that his ship was still on the short side of the odds he took small comfort in his correctly anticipating his adversary’s actions.

  “Put him on,” Middleton said coolly.

  The image of Captain James Raubach, wearing his Rim Fleet uniform and looking every bit the victorious conqueror, appeared on the main viewer. “Lieutenant Commander Middleton,” he said, adding a derisive snort. “It looks like I lost a bet.”

  “Oh?” Middleton arched an eyebrow in feigned interest.

  Raubach sighed and nodded with apparent reluctance as he looked off-camera and said, “My XO drew up the ambush plan, but I told her it was a fool’s hope. I said ‘Middleton may be a backwater bumpkin, running around in a ship old enough to have fought in the Great Rebellion, and surrounded by,” his lip curled into a contemptuous sneer, “what I suppose could charitably be called ‘peasant militia,’ but one thing he is not is a blasted fool’.” Raubach leaned toward the pick-up and shook his head again, this time in pity, “It seems I was wrong about that last part.”

  “You staged an ambush,” Middleton agreed, “and I fell for it. Even I have to admit that the similarities to our last encounter are striking.”

  “But now I’m the one closing the trap,” Raubach said, and for a brief moment Middleton saw genuine anger—or outrage—flash across the other man’s visage and it was in that moment that the Pride’s captain realized his odds had just improved, “and there won’t be any battleships riding in to your rescue, this time.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Middleton asked neutrally.

  Raubach nodded knowingly. “I am. A pity about those Marines, though,” he said bitterly, “they were some of the best I’ve known.”

  “My Lancers were decidedly unimpressed,” Middleton countered easily, “but then we peasant militia have a little different standards, as I’m sure you surmised.”

  “Quite,” Raubach said, his eyes narrowing briefly before gesturing to one of his bridge crew. “Flank speed; I want firing solutions in one hour. Let’s get this business over with as quickly as possible.”

  “Captain Raubach,” Middleton said just as it appeared the other man was about to sever the connection, “I’ve been wondering something since last we met.”

  “What might that be?” Raubach asked disinterestedly, the arrogance of nobility thick in his visage.

  Middleton leaned forward and paused for several seconds before asking, “Just how did you convince so m
any commanders to abandon their oaths to become your pirate lackeys?” Raubach’s visage stiffened, prompting Middleton to say in a raised voice, “The Pride of Prometheus won’t go down without a fight; someone remove that man off my view screen.”

  The viewer went dead, and Middleton knew that his last words were hardly the kind of last-minute battle cry his crew may have wanted. But the odds were already stacked against them, and he needed every possible advantage he could get.

  “Helm,” he said in a commanding voice, “execute your maneuver.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the woman at the helm acknowledged, and the icon representing the Pride on the main viewer’s tactical overlay began to move toward the system’s primary. Their course had been laid out precisely, and if they deviated from it in any appreciable manner then their chances of survival would decrease to almost nil.

  Middleton knew that the Dämmerung would form a pincer with the droid corvette providing leverage opposite its own position. With the corvette to the stellar north, Captain Raubach’s Heavy Destroyer would move to the stellar south. If Middleton followed standard protocol, it would be a small matter for the Dämmerung to chip away at the Pride’s shields from outside Middleton’s own weapons range. Working in tandem, Raubach’s ships would drive the older, slower warship into the waiting arms of the Corvette.

  Middleton knew he could destroy the Corvette, but if he drove toward it then Raubach would come up onto his stern with guns blazing. Every tactical simulation he had run showed the wounded Pride being destroyed ninety eight times out of one hundred, with a one percent chance of victory and a one percent chance of effective retreat. The two percent variability rested solely on his foe’s guns missing the mark more than they hit it, and even if the chances had been ten times as ‘good’ for his crew in such projections, he would never leave an engagement up to what was essentially random chance.

  So he watched as his warship made its way toward the heart of the system. Chief Garibaldi had managed to make a few last-minute modifications to the shield grid by employing every single one of the portable generators they had taken from Gambit Station. Middleton silently prayed to the Saint that those modifications would prove worthwhile.