No Middle Ground

by Caleb Wachter

  “Thank you, Sensors,” Middleton replied, knowing it was only a matter of minutes before his trap would spring. With any luck, they could disable the other vessel’s engines and force a boarding action before the pirates broke free of the planet’s gravity. “Bring them in, Jardine,” he said, turning to the men at Comm. before adding, “and prepare to summon your sensor ghosts, Mr. Fei.”

  “Yes, Captain,” the men replied in unison.

  “We read you on sensors,” Jardine said as he continued to adjust his instrumentation in a seemingly random fashion.

  “We’ll deploy bucking cables,” Captain Rodriguez said over the comm., “hold tight and we’ll pull you out of there.”

  “Enemy vessel closing, Captain,” Sarkozi reported, “range is now two thousand kilometers…one thousand eight hundred…one thousand five hundred.”

  “Close enough for a shave yet, Captain?” Jersey asked from his position between Tactical and Helm.

  “Indeed, Commander,” Middleton said with an encouraging gesture, “I think it’s time we said ‘hello’. Mr. Fei,” he turned to the Comm. section, “activate the ghosts.”

  “Yes, Captain,” the young man replied as his fingers flew across his console for several seconds before the Tactical display on the main viewer showed a new signal which represented the Pride of Prometheus emerging from the planet’s far side.

  “Enemy vessel’s descent has stopped, Captain,” Sensors reported. “Range now six hundred kilometers and holding.”

  “Activate your hailing program, Ensign,” Middleton ordered.

  Ensign Jardine did as ordered, and a second later a recorded transmission came through over the same channel as they had used to communicate with the pirate destroyer, “Incumbent-class destroyer, this is Captain Jardine aboard the MSP Cruiser Pride of Prometheus. Heave to and prepare to be boarded by our inspection teams.”

  “This is Captain LeBron Rodriguez of the Sector Guard Destroyer, Cardinal’s Wrath,” Rodriguez responded in obvious surprise, “we do not recognize your authority to conduct an inspection of Sector Guard assets. We are here on the orders of Commodore Raubach to investigate reports of an attack in this area, and must assume you were the perpetrators of this act of barbarism.”

  Middleton suppressed a snicker, since Jardine’s recorded message had been the only one of its kind.

  “Enemy destroyer is coming about, Captain,” Sarkozi reported crisply before pausing briefly and then adding, “she has presented her stern to us.”

  “Instruct the gun deck they are cleared to engage,” Middleton ordered, feeling a surge of excitement as he did so. “Light her up!”

  “Aye, Captain,” Sarkozi acknowledged, and less than a second later the forward batteries let loose as one and the tactical icon representing the Cardinal’s Wrath flashed yellow for several seconds before reverting to a shade of slightly-dimmer-than-before green. “Ten hits, Captain,” Sarkozi reported, although anything less would have been a complete shock. Six hundred kilometers was the equivalent of point-blank range in space combat, and the enemy vessel had obviously thought they had several minutes before the merchant conversion—disguised as the Pride of Prometheus—would come into firing range. “Enemy shields read twenty percent on the stern facing with moderate spotting.”

  “Full power to the engines, Helm,” Middleton ordered, “I want to keep these blighters in our sights as long as possible.”

  The enemy vessel’s acceleration was roughly twice that of the Pride of Prometheus, and it was maneuverable enough that it could roll to present fresh shield facings often enough to make this a close affair—unless the Pride managed to damage the pirate’s engines, in which case it would only be a matter of time before the larger, heavier-shielded MSP Cruiser wore the other ship down and forced a surrender.

  Middleton flipped on his chair’s com-link and switched to the broad-spectrum frequencies while also activating the video pickup. “Captain Rodriguez, this is Captain Tim Middleton of the MSP Cruiser Prometheus Fire,” he lied, suggesting there were in fact two MSP cruisers in the system rather than just one. “You are ordered to lower your shields, power down your fusion cores and heave to while awaiting our inspection teams. Failure to comply will result in the immediate application of deadly force.”

  “Middleton?” Rodriguez said with a blank look on his fatter-than-Middleton-remembered-them features. He quickly regained his composure as a sneer spread over his features. “Blast you,” he growled.

  Middleton couldn’t keep a smirk from his features as he leaned forward in his chair. “It was ‘rook to queen’s bishop seven,’ right?” he goaded, reminding the other man of the move which had forced Rodriguez’s resignation years earlier.

  Rodriguez’s face turned bright red and his eyes widened furiously as he leveled a finger at Middleton. “You’ve had your shot, Middleton,” he spat, “now I’m going to have mine!” With that, he cut the transmission and the Pride of Prometheus was subsequently rocked by a series of impacts.

  “Multiple laser strikes on the forward shields,” Sarkozi reported, “forward shields at 78% and holding.”

  “Return fire at will,” Middleton ordered, turning to Jardine and Fei Long, “be prepared to immediately jam any Starfire missiles you detect.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Jardine replied, while Fei Long appeared to be distracted by something on his console as he failed to respond to Middleton’s order.

  The Pride was rocked again, and this time the grav-plating was briefly disrupted. Such a disruption may have been a disaster like the one which had previously sent a pair of bridge standers to sickbay, but Middleton had made sure every workstation on the bridge was now equipped with twelve-point harnesses, which only Commander Jersey and Captain Middleton had eschewed.

  “Plasma cannon impacts,” Sarkozi reported with a note of surprise in her voice, “forward shields at sixty two percent and holding.”

  The Incumbent-class Destroyer was generally not equipped with plasma cannons, but combat variables were as fluid as they were varied, so Middleton knew he had no need to order Sarkozi to re-run the tactical simulations in order to find the optimal course of action. Regardless of her character flaws, the woman was a top-notch—if inexperienced—Tactical Officer and the Captain knew he could trust her to do that part of her job as well as anyone else on the ship, including him.

  The Pride rose above the planet’s atmospheric veil and the background of the tactical overlay on the main viewer was replaced with a visual representation of the Cardinal’s Wrath.

  “Enemy range is increasing,” Sarkozi reported, “I estimate we’ll get five more salvos before they’ve gone to extreme range.”

  “Make your shots count, Tactical,” Middleton said calmly as he verified the destroyer’s course had followed his predicted path. It would be a close thing for the Pride to bring the Wrath’s shields down, assuming the destroyer maneuvered properly to present its freshest shield facing to them. And while Rodriguez could be called a reckless man, he was at the very least a competent officer, so Middleton doubted he would be on the receiving end of any further blunders by his opponent.

  The Pride’s forward laser batteries lanced out in unison and impacted on the Wrath’s starboard stern quarter, after which the destroyer predictably rolled to present its port stern quarter while continuing on its same course uninterrupted.

  “Nine of ten hits,” Sarkozi called out bitterly, apparently taking umbrage with the lone miss, “enemy starboard stern shielding is down to 16% with critical spotting.”

  “Steady on, Tactical,” Middleton chided before adding, “we wouldn’t want them to make this too easy for us, would we?”

  “Of course not, Captain,” Sarkozi replied awkwardly, but Middleton could feel the focus of his crew sharpen as they pursued the enemy vessel.

  “Engineering,” Middleton activated his com-link, “we need a full overdrive on my mark.”

  “We’re ready, Captain,” a junior Engineering officer named Alexander
replied, “just give the word and we’ll give you a six minute burst.”

  “Six minutes?” Middleton repeated, remembering from a previous report that the engines could handle eight minutes’ overdrive safely.

  “Sorry, Captain,” Alexander said, “the Chief had to take a few power relays over to the Wings, so the best we can do now is six minutes before we reach failure.”

  “Understood,” Middleton said before catching Commander Jersey’s eye, “let’s close this acceleration gap a bit.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Jersey replied hungrily before turning to the helmsman, “you heard the Captain: open her up!”

  “Yes, Commander,” the helmsman replied, and there was the barely perceptible increase in acceleration before the grav-plates compensated for the unexpected surge. “Engines at one ten…one twenty…one twenty eight…one thirty four…one hundred thirty nine percent rated output, Captain,” the helmsman reported.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Cardinal’s Wrath would continue to increase its distance from the pursuing Pride of Prometheus, but the longer the destroyer remained within optimal firing range of the Pride’s big guns, the better things would go for Middleton and his crew.

  Another series of impacts registered on the Pride’s forward shields, and Sarkozi reported, “Mixed plasma and laser fire; forward shields down to 52%, Captain. Light spotting detected.”

  “Attempting to compensate for the spotting, sir,” the Shields operator said quickly.

  “Captain,” Fei Long’s calm, serene voice called out, “I would like permission to jam all communications frequencies. The Cardinal’s Wrath is sending out a transmission, which I believe I can temporarily obstruct by occluding all channels.”

  “Do it,” Middleton ordered, spinning his chair to face the Comm. section and giving an approving nod.

  “I believe our newly-connected transmitter will overheat within twelve minutes of such sustained activity,” Fei Long continued, unfastening himself and standing from his chair, “but I can extend that to forty minutes if I physically attend the equipment for a few minutes. Missile jamming protocols are pre-programmed to this console; any officer can execute them with the press of a button.”

  “Jardine,” Middleton said after less than a second’s consideration, “accompany Fei Long and assist him.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Ensign Jardine replied, and within seconds the two had left the bridge, and a new stander assumed the Comm. station.

  The Pride was shaken by another round of fire from the Cardinal’s Wrath, and Sarkozi reported, “Forward shields down to 41%, Captain; no spotting detected.” The Pride’s forward battery arced out and the Wrath’s shields flared briefly, causing Sarkozi to declare, “Enemy port stern shielding has collapsed!”

  “That was unexpected,” Middleton muttered, running silent calculations as he tried to understand what might have just happened.

  “Agreed, Captain,” Sarkozi said tensely before adding, “I’m now reading ship-wide power fluctuations from the Wrath. Their grid is on the verge of collapse!”

  “The destroyer’s engines have cut out,” the Sensors operator reported, “I’m reading significant coolant leakage from their primary manifolds; they’ve engaged their maneuvering thrusters to present their bow.”

  “If their engines remain down for two minutes and we maintain overdrive for the maximum duration, we can bring their shields down before they leave medium range,” Sarkozi said eagerly.

  “It’s too easy,” Middleton said with a shake of his head. “Helm, discontinue overdrive,” he instructed before turning to face the Engineering officer. “Have Alexander return the engines to standard combat output.”

  “Yes, sir,” the crewmen acknowledged.

  “But Captain,” Jersey said, stepping up from the Tactical pit, “this could be our chance to put them down.”

  “They want us in close,” Captain Middleton replied. “Rodriguez might fall for such an obvious trick, but I won’t.”

  Several tense minutes passed as the Pride of Prometheus continued to bear down on the Cardinal’s Wrath.

  “Incoming!” the Sensors operator reported suddenly. “Reading thirty two Starfire missiles inbound, Captain.”

  “Confirmed,” Sarkozi said, and Captain Middleton was pleased to hear that at least her composure had improved since their last instance of taking fire. “Estimated time to firing range is twenty seconds.”

  “Comm.,” Middleton whirled to face the new stander, “initiate countermeasures as soon as those missiles enter firing range.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Comm. stander replied, leaning toward Fei Long’s station and holding his hand over the countermeasures activation icon. The countdown ticked by until reaching zero, at which point the Comm. stander activated the countermeasure protocols.

  “Decompression detected on deck six,” the Damage Control operator reported.

  “Cause?” Middleton demanded. The Pride hadn’t taken fire for several seconds, so a spontaneous decompression was more than slightly alarming.

  “Atmospheric pressures in adjacent sections show to be within normal limits, Captain,” the operator said in confusion. “I’m not detecting any breaches in the hull, either.”

  “It looks like we vented an airlock, Captain,” the Engineering liaison reported.

  “I’m reading a small field of debris spreading to either side of the ship,” the Sensors operator reported. “Composition…it appears to be made of tiny metal fragments composed primarily of duralloy, sir.”

  Just then the missile icons on the main viewer sailed into their represented zone of fire, and they flashed in unison as the Pride of Prometheus lurched forward under repeated laser impacts. Several consoles flashed and began to reboot as a system-wide power spike affected half of the bridge’s apparent systems.

  “Damage report!” Middleton snapped. He was uncertain he knew the cause of the unexpected airlock venting, but if his suspicion was correct then he was going to have a little chat with Fei Long regarding adherence to the chain of command.

  “We may now proceed to the main dish relay,” Fei Long said after the ship lurched and shuddered from several distinct laser strikes, indicating that his countermeasures had proven at least partially effective. If he could have just opened one of these ‘Starfire’ missiles up and broken down its software, he was certain he could do much better than simply interrupt their fire-linking protocols, but the past was the past—and he had a new job to do.

  “We should have told the Captain before doing this,” Jardine said, clearly fearful of reprisals from his commanding officer for their errant trip to an airlock, where they had loaded metal fillings and other random debris in an attempt to confuse the visual targeting systems on the Starfire missiles.

  “I fear my jamming signal also interferes with ship-board mobile com-links,” Fei Long explained as they made their way to the lift which would take them to the hyper dish’s main relay.

  “We could have stopped at a hard-linked console,” Jardine growled.

  “Which would have taken more time than we had,” Fei Long countered smoothly. They had only managed to load the metal filings and other debris into the airlock some thirty seconds prior to the missiles’ impact.

  “I’m going to have to file a report on this,” the Ensign said bitterly as they entered the lift and the door closed behind them.

  “You must follow our Lord’s military command, of course,” Fei Long replied as he gestured to the lift’s handheld micro-breach containment device. “We must bring this with us.”

  Ensign Jardine arched an eyebrow incredulously. “That’s not a cryo-pump,” he said, as though Fei Long was unaware, “that’s an expanding foam unit; what good will it do us with overheating electronics?”

  “Please,” Fei Long gestured as the door opened onto the deck of their destination, “I will explain along the way.”

  Looking doubtful, Jardine did as he was advised and removed the fire-suppression uni
t from its bracket before exiting the lift behind Fei Long. Fei Long held his hand out expectantly without breaking stride, and when Jardine gave it to him, the younger man said, “The issue with our converted equipment is not heat generation, but rather with heat retention. The orbital satellite from which we salvaged it was designed to function behind a shield comprised of solar radiation-harvesting cells. Those cells block the satellite itself from direct sunlight, thereby providing a relatively stable environment for thermal radiation.”

  “I do have multiple degrees in particle theory,” Jardine said impatiently, “so I understand how energy transmission works.”

  “Of course,” Fei Long replied as he removed the safety pin from the cylindrical device just as the ship was rocked by another series of impacts that caused the lights to dim for several seconds before returning to their usual luminescence. “I have read your personnel file, Ensign Jardine; you have a competent grasp of energy theory, which is why I am bothering to explain this to you at all.” Fei Long turned the canister upside-down and tapped it on the upturned bottom several times as they made their way toward the sealed door labeled ‘Restricted Access.’ “If you please,” he gestured to the access console, which Jardine used to unlock the door as Fei Long continued, “there is a little-known quality of the pressurized propellant utilized in the manufacture of these devices which, when in the presence of an oxygenated atmosphere, allows it to ignite within a very narrow thermal band. This is why my world stopped usin—.”

  “What?!” Jardine snapped, whirling on Fei Long and interdicting his path with his arms. “We’re here to cool the transmitter off, not set it on fire!”

  Fei Long sighed as he shook his head. “The quantity of propellant present is barely enough to create a persistent, visible flame, Ensign,” he said, gesturing for them to continue, “and each second we waste here costs us ten seconds of continued signal jamming, should we fail to control the transmitter’s thermal state; I suggest we continue with all haste.”