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

  No Middle Ground

  by

  Caleb Wachter

  Copyright © 2014 by Caleb Wachter

  All rights reserved.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to persons living, dead, or hidden in the confines of your own imagination is entirely coincidental. Respect my electronic rights because the money you save today will be the book I can't afford to write for you tomorrow.

  Other books by Caleb Wachter

  SPHEREWORLD NOVEL SERIES

  Joined at the Hilt: Union

  SPHEREWORLD NOVELLAS

  Between White and Grey

  SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVELLAS

  Admiral's Lady: Eyes of Ice, Heart of Fire

  Books by my Brother:

  Luke Sky Wachter

  As of 05-12-2014

  SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVEL SERIES

  Admiral Who?

  Admiral's Gambit

  Admiral's Tribulation

  Admiral's Trial

  Admiral’s Revenge

  RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVEL SERIES

  The Blooding

  RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVELLAS

  The Boar Knife

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter I: With These Rings

  Chapter II: A Dance of Ice & Fire

  Chapter III: Earning Hazard Pay

  Chapter IV: Starting Over

  Chapter V: Lacking Political Capital

  Chapter VI: Tit for Tat and Letter vs. Spirit

  Chapter VII: New Game, Same Rules

  Chapter VIII: Mixed Signals

  Chapter IX: Playing to Strengths

  Chapter X: The Sleeping Dragon, the First Visit

  Chapter XI: A New Player

  Chapter XII: Walk a mile in another’s feet…

  Chapter XIII: Prejudice, Pride, and the Past

  Chapter XIV: Bread Crumbs

  Chapter XV: Sleeping Dragon, the Second Visit

  Chapter XVI: Breaking Bread

  Chapter XVII: Disappointment

  Chapter XVIII: Warmer…

  Chapter XIX: Sleeping Dragon, the Third Visit

  Chapter XX: Smoke & Mirrors

  Chapter XXI: After Action

  Chapter XXII: Raising The Bar

  Chapter XXIII: A Plan Comes Together

  Chapter XXIV: Springing the Trap

  Chapter XXV: Closing the Trap

  Chapter XXVI: Answers

  Chapter XXVII: Shopping for a Gift

  Chapter XXVIII: Last Minute Details

  Chapter XXIX: Twilight’s Fall

  Chapter XXX: Taking a Stand, and Shaking a Hand

  Chapter XXXI: A New Plan

  Chapter XXXII: A Lesson in Game Theory

  Chapter XXXIII: An Unexpected Guest

  Chapter XXXIV: An Update…and the gift of Red Hare

  Chapter XXXV: Meetings of the Minds

  Chapter XXXVI: A Hub and a Surprise

  Chapter XXXVII: Protecting the Ball

  Chapter XXXVIII: Repair and Regroup

  Chapter XXXIX: One Headache after Another

  Chapter XL: Fight Out of It

  Chapter XLI: The Fray

  Chapter XLII: A Wall of Iron

  Chapter XLIII: Cleaning Up

  Epilogue I: Advice…and an Airlock!?

  Epilogue II: Coming to Terms

  Epilogue III: Debriefing the Admiral

  Chapter I: With These Rings

  The following begins three weeks after the Pride of Prometheus was sent on patrol by Admiral Jason Montagne. The patrol was only supposed to last for a month…

  “Comm., report,” Captain Middleton turned to address the Comm. station calmly, “has the southern corvette signaled the pirate base of our location?”

  “No signals detected, Captain,” reported the man at Comm.

  “Neither corvette appears to have reacted to our presence, Captain,” reported the officer at Tactical, a capable if somewhat timid young Ensign named Sarkozi. “They’re continuing on their respective orbits around the gas giant.”

  Middleton glanced down at his chair’s built-in screen, which mirrored the tactical readout currently on the main viewer. He had never quite gotten used to processing information from the main screen, being a Tactical officer himself until three weeks earlier when Admiral Montagne had field-commissioned him as a Captain of the Pride of Prometheus. ‘Captain’ or not, Lieutenant Commander Tyrone ‘Tim’ Middleton was much more comfortable hunched over a console than sitting in the Captain’s chair but he managed to ameliorate that discomfort via the chair’s built-in displays.

  The gas giant’s most remarkable feature, aside from an enormously powerful EM field, was a nearly continuous ring of rock and ice which was easily of the most spectacular ring systems on record. The rings’ median thickness measured two kilometers, and they extended nearly five hundred thousand kilometers from the edge of the planet’s atmosphere nearly uninterrupted. Only two moons made their orbital paths through the rings, each clearing out narrow bands of material during their countless orbits.

  The moon which the Pride had hidden behind was on the outer edge of the rings, and that moon’s abnormally large mass had likely been the reason the gas giant’s rings were so spectacular, with the planetoid’s gravity providing gravitational stability.

  After flicking through a few screens of data, he was satisfied that they had not yet been detected. The twin, old-style CR-70 Corvettes appeared to be in good shape, but they were nowhere near the Pride’s match in a firefight. Even working together, it would take some fancy maneuvering to give Middleton’s people any serious trouble.

  It would take another twelve minutes to close to the Pride’s extreme firing range, and if they could remain undetected that long then this engagement would be a walk in the park. They had locked the Pride of Prometheus into a stationary orbit behind the gas giant’s largest moon two days earlier, and since then they had operated under silent running protocols while the orbit of the moon had brought them around for an advantageous position on the pirate base—a gas collection facility which had gone silent some two weeks earlier.

  A real military commander would have run sorties on a regular schedule to cover the dark side of the moon, which was to say nothing of the massive rings around the planet, but these pirates were clearly lacking proper military discipline. Middleton almost felt sorry for the pirates…almost.

  “Contact!” called out Sarkozi in a raised voice. “I’m reading two…make that, three vessels on approach from the system’s edge.”

  “Range?” Middleton demanded, his previously confident mood taken down a notch as he flipped through his chair’s tactical readouts. His crew was extremely green, but they had spent the past two days in preparation for this, and he was pleased with their displayed focus and professionalism to this point.

  “They’re entering medium weapon’s range now, Captain,” Sarkozi replied, her voice taut with disappointment.

  The Comm. officer piped in, “I’m receiving civilian freighter ID’s on the newcomers, sir.”

  Middleton nodded, feeling a wave of relief at the newcomers being civilian ships rather than warships. Even if they were converted with whatever weaponry they could fit, they would be little to no factor in the coming engagement.

&nbs
p; “How did they get so close?” grumbled the Helmsman, an older man named Jersey whose demeanor was always on the surly side.

  “The gas giant’s EM field overpowered our passive sensors,” Middleton grudged. It had been a risk going to silent running for the approach, since doing so had restricted the use of their primary sensor array as its transmissions were too easily detectable and would have given away their position. With the passive sensors and Comm. array as their only eyes and ears, they had been nearly as blind as the pirate corvettes. “Engineering,” he raised his voice, turning fractionally to face the Engineering officer posted to the bridge during first shift, “silent running protocols are suspended; I need my engines back and I need them now.”

  “Yes, sir,” the engineer reported before relaying the orders to Main Engineering via his workstation. A few seconds later the lights on the bridge brightened to their usual luminosity, causing Middleton to squint as his eyes adjusted. “Main power restored, Captain,” the engineer said crisply. “Engines coming online now; you should have full power in ten minutes.”

  “You have five minutes,” Middleton snapped irritably. The Pride of Prometheus was an old design, being a Hammerhead-class medium cruiser nearly two hundred years old. Its myriad flaws were punctuated by antique, underpowered engines and limited armor, but the lone saving grace of having these particular old, underpowered engines was that they could be fired up far quicker than their newer, more efficient counterparts. Middleton had read the specs, inspected the engines personally, and knew that any engineer worth his salt could get the job done in four and a half minutes in combat conditions with already active power plants.

  The Engineering officer went back and forth the Main Engineering for a moment before turning to Middleton and clearing his throat, “The Chief says the protocols call for a five minute pre-fire checklist, followed by—“

  “To Hades with the protocols!” Middleton snapped. Chief Engineer Alfred ‘Mikey’ Garibaldi — the ‘Mikey’ moniker was one reserved for close friends — had been a proverbial thorn in Middleton’s side since he had assumed command three weeks earlier, but there was no one else aboard the ship who was qualified to fill his post. He was capable enough, and had been an acquaintance of Middleton’s for several years, but the man had an insufferable predilection with running things ‘by the book.’ “Tell him we need those engines up in five minutes; I’ll take responsibility if the blasted things blow up!”

  The Engineering officer relayed Middleton’s order before nodding curtly. “The Chief says he’ll bypass the regs…and that he’s making a note in his log,” he said timidly.

  “See that he does,” Middleton growled before turning to Ensign Sarkozi, the Tactical officer. “Overcharge the forward array for the opening salvo on the southern corvette; if this lasts longer than two exchanges, their friends might be able to get into the fight. I want these pirates down and out before we enter their range so we only have to reinforce one shield facing.”

  “Yes, Captain,” she replied professionally before going about her task.

  “Comm.,” Middleton continued as his fingers flew over the tactical display on his chair, “begin squawking our ID on the hailing channels and order those corvettes to stand down, heave to and deactivate their power plants. They have two minutes to comply.”

  “Yes, Captain,” the man acknowledged.

  “Helm, get us moving however fast we can manage on the following course,” Middleton ordered after he had performed a few quick calculations and forwarded the results to Jersey’s console. The numbers confirmed that his initial belief had been correct: if the southern corvette was able to withstand more than two barrages from the Pride’s forward array then its ally would have time to maneuver and outflank the Pride, and then they’d have a real fight on their hands.

  We needed those extra twelve minutes! Middleton swore silently. There was little doubt the Pride would prevail in a slugfest, but good people would get hurt in the process and their ship would take an unnecessary beating—neither of which was an acceptable concession before a shot had been fired.

  “Aye, Captain,” Jersey replied in his usual, gruff, semi-irritated manner. A few moments later, Middleton felt the barely-perceptible shift in gravity as the grav-plates adjusted to compensate for their forward motion. Some of his crew still got space-sick during tactical maneuvers on such an outdated vessel, but the ship’s doctor had dispensed the proper pharmaceuticals to counteract the vertigo and other deleterious effects the outdated artificial gravity system was infamous for.

  “Shall we raise shields, Captain?” Sarkozi asked stoically.

  Middleton nearly cocked a lopsided grin, since judging from her tone his Tactical officer assumed he had forgotten about the shields. “Not yet, Tactical,” he replied calmly. “Right now we need all available power to the engines and weapons array. Besides, we’re still well outside their firing range; another few minutes and the power plants should be able to handle a full combat load.”

  Sarkozi bit her cheek and nodded crisply. “Very good, sir,” she managed before turning back to her console with the slightest blush of red on her face.

  “The corvettes are refusing to heave to and disarm, Captain,” the Comm. stander reported. “They’re claiming to be an MSP security detachment assigned to the gas collection facility.”

  “Hah!” Middleton barked a short laugh, which he instantly regretted but did his best to ignore. “Then tell them we’re here to conduct an inspection on the orders of the highest ranking officer in the MSP, Admiral Jason Montagne. Request they squawk the current MSP chain of command, along with their vessels’ respective ID’s and names of their CO’s or, failing their ability to do so, that they stand down, heave to and deactivate their power plants.”

  “We’ve cleared the sensor shadow of the moon, Captain,” Sarkozi reported, “the southern corvette is on an intercept course with us while the northern is coming about. The southern corvette will be in our weapons range in four minutes; the northern in nine.”

  “Thank you, Ensign,” Middleton replied as he flicked through schematics for last-minute review on the enemy vessel capabilities. He had memorized the specs for the CR-70 during the academy, but it had become part of his process some years earlier to call up schematics to refresh himself—and hopefully glean a nugget of tactical advantage as he did so.

  “The corvettes’ weapons are charged and they’re trying to lock missiles on us,” Sarkozi reported professionally. “Estimate the southern corvette will achieve firing solution thirty seconds after we do.”

  “No response to our ID challenge, Captain,” the Comm. stander added tensely. “Their security handshakes are also three weeks out of date.”

  Before Middleton could acknowledge the Comm. officer’s report, Sarkozi piped in, “Regulations clearly dictate we treat the vessels as hostile under these circumstances, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Tactical, Comm.,” Middleton replied as he saw the forward array’s power levels continue to climb. By modern standards, the Hammerhead-class medium cruiser, Pride of Prometheus, was a slow, poorly-armored ship—everywhere but the bow—whose primary strength was in its forward array of heavy lasers and robust forward shields. The Pride, in its current configuration, possessed just two point defense batteries and a pair of stern-mounted heavy lasers. Its design focused primarily on economy, and was intended to be deployed in large formations to limit the design’s weaknesses while permitting several ships to be fielded for the cost of only one, more advanced, model.

  The CR-70 corvette, on the other hand, was faster than the Hammerhead and possessed a more well-rounded weapons package as well, built primarily around omnidirectional, short-range lasers which were employed in strafing runs that maximized the ship’s agility and speed. It appeared that these particular versions of the vessel were also equipped with longer range missiles, and the effective range of those missiles, once deployed, was roughly that of the Pride’s primary weapons array.

  T
he Pride of Prometheus’ engines continued to increase their output as the tactical display on the main screen showed the ship’s consistent, yet frustratingly sluggish, acceleration toward the southern corvette. True to Middleton’s calculations, just under five minutes after issuing the order they had achieved their maximum acceleration and were driving straight on at their target.

  “Maximum weapons range achieved, Captain,” Sarkozi reported briskly. “Forward batteries charged to 130% of specifications and solutions have been locked.”

  Middleton smirked as he leaned forward in his chair. “You are cleared to engage, Tactical; blow ‘em to Hades.”

  “Larry that, sir,” Sarkozi replied with relish before turning to her display and issuing the orders to the gun deck. Less than a second after she had finished punching in the directives, the forward batteries unleashed their full might and fury, lashing out with the combined power of ten heavy laser cannons which converged onto their target.

  The shields of the enemy vessel flared into, and then out of, existence as the combined weight of the Pride’s forward weaponry crushed the corvette’s bow-facing shields.

  “Eight direct hits, Captain; the corvette’s bow shields are buckling and she’s turning to present her broadside,” Sarkozi reported, but Middleton had already read as much from his chair’s readout. As soon as he saw that the enemy corvette had turned to flee toward the planet rather than away, he felt a surge of triumph.

  He had them!

  “Helm, change course and speed to the following,” he instructed as he forwarded the information to Jersey’s console. “Shields, divert all power to the dorsal and bow facings; Engineering, we need to overcharge the engines and close on the southern corvette.”

  “Chief Garibaldi reports that the reactors are already at 102% of rated capacity,” replied the engineer, “he’s not comfortable pushing them any harder, sir.”