No Middle Ground

by Caleb Wachter

  The viewer once again morphed into the close-up visage of Captain Raubach, whose expression was just as cold and unyielding as Middleton hoped his own appeared. “I’m not going to mince words, Captain,” he said with the barest hint of derision at Middleton’s rank, “you are hereby under arrest for the act of piracy involving a Promethean vessel, and the murder of seventy two people. The latter act will be regarded as a war crime under the Confederation Military Code since the victims had lawfully surrendered prior to your cold-blooded act. Surrender peacefully and there is no need for your crew to share your fate.”

  “Mr. Fei,” Middleton said calmly, as he locked eyes with Captain Raubach through the view-screen, “is the rest of the fleet in position?”

  “All six vessels await your command, Captain,” Fei Long replied in a carrying voice.

  “Can we dispense with the bluff, Middleton?” Captain Raubach asked coldly. “You had your Cruiser, the damaged corvette, my Destroyer,” he said bitingly, “and two merchant conversions available to you. It seems your engineering crews weren’t equal to the task of bringing the Destroyer back online, which would have tilted the board close to even. My sensors show that neither conversion is currently in system, which leaves you just eight minutes before my ships surround and destroy your two vessels—one of which appears to in danger of critical drive system failure.”

  “Captain Raubach,” Middleton said with a nod to Fei Long, whose board immediately flashed with multiple outgoing signals, “your weapons have the same range as mine, but I have eight ships in this system, to which your Sensor operator will now attest. I’ll spare you the suspense and come right out with it: we have six Hammerhead-class Medium Cruisers de-cloaking, in addition to the Pride of Prometheus, and they are prepared to destroy your flotilla at my command.”

  To his credit, Captain Raubach’s features barely flinched after his Sensor operator had been given sufficient time to process the false transponder signals Fei Long and Ensign Jardine had prepared. Those signals supported Middleton’s claim, absurd as it might seem, and it would require several minutes for Captain Raubach’s ships to debunk the signals one-by-one with visual scans.

  “I’m going to give you one last chance to stand down before my fleet opens fire,” Middleton said through granite features, “but when I give the order to fire, I won’t stop until you’ve struck your colors and ejected your fusion cores.”

  For a moment, he actually thought Captain Raubach might not call his bluff. But something glinted in the other man’s eye and his mouth twisted into a contemptuous smirk. “How stupid do you think I am, Middleton? You’ve barely managed to drag two ships to the line, and you want me to fall for a few sensor ghosts?”

  Captain Middleton felt his stomach twist as he knew he had been called. He raised his fingers as the tactical overlay showed the enemy vessels enter firing range, but Captain Raubach’s people beat the Pride’s crew to the punch as the forward shields of the Pride of Prometheus flared, and the ship lurched slightly under the weight of the Dämmerung’s long guns.

  Middleton turned to Fei Long and made a slashing gesture with his raised hand, “Order the fleet to open fire, Mr. Fei.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Fei Long replied as his fingers repeated a sequence of motion a half dozen times before striking the flashing icon on his console.

  A moment later, Captain Middleton’s fleet opened fire.

  The icons of the Light Destroyer and one of the Corvettes flashed rapidly, and when the barrage was concluded both ships’ status indicators went from green to red, with the Light Destroyer flashing gray.

  The Pride of Prometheus added her forward array to the onslaught shortly thereafter, and the Tactical Officer reported, “The Light Destroyer and Number Two Corvette have been completely disabled by the fleet; Number One Corvette’s forward shields are showing critical spotting and their power grid is fluctuating.”

  Middleton locked eyes with Captain Raubach and curled his lip in a sneer. “Eject your fusion cores, Captain, or the next volley will destroy your ship,” he said in a dire tone before severing the connection.

  When the screen went blank he turned to Fei Long, “How many more of those Starfires can you bring into the fight?”

  Fei Long looked doubtful as he checked his figures, “One of the decoy groups composed of ten Starfire missiles is simply too far, Captain Middleton; its fuel supply would exhaust long before it entered range and would therefore be rendered useless. The other two ‘decoys’ could be brought into play if we maneuver toward the planet, but otherwise they will be useless to us as well.”

  Middleton knew that if he came about now, it would only embolden Captain Raubach, so he shook his head adamantly. “We can’t flinch until he does,” he said, turning to Jersey and adding, “maintain course, Helm.”

  “Been awhile since I played a game of ‘chicken,’ Captain,” his XO replied with a short, harsh laugh as he increased the ship’s acceleration, “I don’t recall being too good at it.”

  “Let’s hope we can say the same of Captain Raubach,” Middleton said under his breath.

  The Sensor operator reported, “Captain, Number Two Corvette is peeling off and making for the hyper limit and the Light Destroyer is dead in space, having already ejected its two power cores. Number Three Corvette is falling back, but the other three vessels are continuing on course.”

  “Their four on our two,” Middleton mused loud enough that his crew could hear him, “standard fare for the Pride of Prometheus, eh Commander?”

  “More targets for our guns,” the Commander replied gruffly, and Middleton could feel the crew increase their focus as the second volley of fire came from the enemy fleet, and this one made the first look like a love bite.

  “Forward shields at 48%, Captain,” the Shields operator reported. “Minimal spotting; working to compensate now.”

  “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 shie
lds 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 fight 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 ju
st 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.”