Olympus Beckons Pt. 07

This story takes place in the universe created by fellow writer farbeyondourstars.

Olympus Beckons - Part 7: "Give Them the Good News!"

One moment, space was empty, just another bit of black in that endless sea of darkness. And then, from a swirling, crackling vortex of man-made lightning, a shape rose out of the depths of that non-Euclidean realm that is hyperspace, to breach once more back into the familiar domain of material existence.

The "Zeus" was not a graceful craft. She did not possess the fine lines and gleaming hull of some of the more modern vessels. For she was a warship. One of the last of the old Invictus class, with a hull sheathed in battered armour plate, showing the dents and scars of long years of hard use. She was not pretty, for she was built for combat, and violence was her trade.

Captain Frances Frobisher sat in her command chair. Her eyes bright, but other than that slightly predatory tell, she emanated only an aura of calm, barely glancing around her when the hull creaked, and the lights momentarily flickered as the ship returned to reality.

When she spoke, her voice was professionally detached, "Status?"

Damon, her executive officer, looked up from checking the boards at his secondary command station, "We've transitioned back into realspace. Nav shows us on the edge of the Scorpius Sigma star system. The ship is at action stations, all systems show manned and ready, all combat systems show green, shields raised, plasma torpedo tubes loaded, and main gun charging. Emergency power available at your discretion."

"Thank you, Damon."

She looked towards the slender, fair skinned woman manning one of the other bridge stations, "Navigation?"

Tapping a last few controls, lieutenant Collingwood confirmed her calculations before turning to her, "Distance to Scorpius Sigma II is two hundred and thirty light minutes, Captain. At standard speed we can make orbital insertion in just under eight hours."

Frances nodded and gave the woman a smile, "Very good, Selene, and nicely done."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Seeing a light flashing on her console, the Captain tapped a key, and one of her monitors lit to show the face of her chief engineer, "Go ahead."

The craggy old spacer nodded, "Engineering report, Cap. We strained the hyperdrive a bit, a couple of the baffles warped, and there were a few burnouts when we came out of jump, but it's an easy fix," he grinned, "this lady might be old, but she's tough, she won't let us down."

"I never doubted it. Is the drive still operational in the meantime?"

Running a hand across his bald head he blew out a breath, "Well, I'd prefer to do a bit of maintenance first and maybe let her settle a bit, but yes, we can jump."

"I'll see what I can do. Thank you, Chief."

"Contact!"

Her head snapped round, "Report."

The scan-tech was peering into her display, "Three, no four contacts, just coming into scanning range," she adjusted a dial, "they appear to be in close formation, in stationary orbit around Sigma II."

"Any identification?"

The rating shook her head, "We're still too far out, ma'am, but preliminary readings show that one matches the configuration of target vessel. Another is larger, and it looks to be in very close proximity to target, possibly docked. The others are both smaller than either of those vessels. I can't be sure from here, but they appear to be warships, and it looks like they are flying escort."

"Thank you, Gail, good work. Let me know if you can make out anything else."

The rating smiled at the compliment and bent back to her scope, "Yes, ma'am."

Damon shook his head, "They got here before us? That thing must have a hell of a hyperdrive engine."

Frances pursed her lips and gave a disgusted snort, "No shit."

Rising from her chair, she moved across the bridge to lean down beside the scan-tech's station, "Can you give us anymore, Gail? Anything could be useful."

The rating was nervous, and it showed, but she somehow kept her voice from trembling as she answered, "I've got the long-range telescopes focusing on them now, ma'am, and I'm getting some trace readings from their gravitic and electronic spoor. The tactical systems have pulled some tentative conclusions from the data. But," she swallowed, "it's not definitive, Captain."

Frances smiled and gave the woman's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, "Don't you worry about that, Gail, I'll take all I can get."

The woman exhaled, "Right, um, okay..."

She pointed at her scope, "This one is almost definitely our boy. The readings, such as they are, match those of the 'Pistolero' pretty closely, so that's the one we're most sure about. Now, it looks like she's docked with this one. It's giving off a powerful gravitic and mass reading, so it's much bigger than the 'Pistolero', maybe three of four times the size, but the electronic footprint isn't that much stronger."

Damon sniffed, "So?"

Frances answered before the scan-tech could speak, "A warship that size would have a significantly more pronounced energy reading, and that thing doesn't, but what it does have is enough mass to indicate an armoured hull. So, it's either some modified piece of crap, which would be dumb as fuck, because adding the mass for armour but not upping the drive would make the thing incredibly sluggish and unwieldy, or..."

She paused, staring out the viewport as she considered, "It's a military prison transport."

"Ma'am?"

"They used them during the war. High-capacity prison hulks for transporting prisoners of war. She's armoured because the things sometimes had to make pick-ups in contested systems."

"Armed?"

Frances shrugged, "Minimal weapons normally, but they could have modified it. A lot of internal security though: automated guns, stun-gas, neural shockplates; that sort of thing."

"Sounds like a bastard to board."

"Yup."

She turned back to the tech, "What about the other two?"

Gail examined the data, "Much higher power readings. They're definitely warships. From the mass readings it's a pair of big corvettes or maybe a couple of escort frigates."

"Which?"

"I-I can't be sure, ma'am."

Frances chuckled, "Then give me your best guess, I won't hold it against you if you guess wrong after I pressed you."

Gail was sweating bullets by now, under the gaze of her Captain, and she licked her lips, adjusting controls as she tried to refine the readings. She peered into the scope again and then nodded, "They're frigates, about the same size and mass as the old Cassandra class. Still looks like they're maneuvering slowly about the docked ships in loose formation."

Nodding slowly, the Captain made a thoughtful sound, "Hmm, Cassandra class, eh? That's a Thorian design. Not seen one of them for a while."

Standing, she patted the girl on the back, "Thank you, Gail, very well done indeed."

Moving back the command chair, she sat gracefully before turning to the XO, "Recommendations?"

Damon made an exasperated sound and indicated to the instrument screens, "It sucks. As soon as they detect us, assuming they haven't already, they'll charge their hyperdrive coils and jump out before we can get anywhere near them. And if we try to close, they'll definitely see us."

She nodded sagely, "Agreed."

The man grimaced and shook his head unhappily, "We could try playing the lame duck, maybe lure one of the escorts out, but that wouldn't help us get the transports. They'd still jump as soon as we started burning in their direction, especially if we shot up one of the frigates first."

"Can't argue with you there," she sighed, "oh well, time to embrace the suck."

"Captain?"

Turning in her chair she looked out across the bridge, "Navigation, plot a microjump, please."

Selene's head whipped round, and the normally self-possessed young woman gave her an incredulous look of mixed horror and disbelief, "A microjump?"

"Yes, please," she pointed at the screen, "drop us right on top of them if you would."

"But that's fucking craz-" she swallowed the words and gestured at her display, "Captain, if I make even the slightest miscalculation, we could come out right in the middle of the planet behind them, or on the far side of the system, or... well, anywhere."

Frances barely blinked, "Better get it right then."

Selene stared.

Clearing his throat, Damon moved closer to the command chair, "Uh, Captain, a microjump will put severe strain on the ship, and if the hyperdrive so much as fluctuates at the wrong time we could come out in pieces, very small pieces."

"Do you have an alternative suggestion?"

"Uh, don't do it."

With a wry snort, she gave the man a grin, "Any other suggestions?"

He shook his head, "No, ma'am."

"Then carry out my orders, please."

He looked into those unyielding eyes and swallowed, "Yes, Captain."

Stepping across the bridge, he tapped a key on his console, "Ship's company, all hands - brace for turbulence, we're in for some heavy chop."

Turning to the navigator, he drew himself up before giving her a brusque nod, "You heard the order. Carry on, lieutenant."

"Shi... Y-yes, Sir."

...

Curtis swore, "Fucking thing..."

Nala eyed him, his mouth curled into that semi-permanent sneer he always seemed to have, "Problem?"

"I saw something," he gestured, "out there, right out on the edge of the system."

"Huh?" The big man moved closer and peered at the scope. After a minute he sniffed, "Don't see nothin' now."

"I'm telling you; it was there."

"What was it?"

"A ship, just hanging there, right on the edge of sensor range. I thought for a minute it was moving in closer, but..."

Looking across the cramped bridge towards a crewman currently slouching over a secondary console, he called out, "Hey, dipshit, how far along are we with the transfer?"

The man looked up from the reader in his hands and glanced at the display, "'Almost done on our end. Word from the 'Elmira' is they've finally started unloading at theirs. An hour, maybe two, and we're done, tops."

Shaking his head, Carson peered back into the scope, muttering, "I'm telling you, man. I got a bad feeling about this..."

Nala grunted. The "Pistolero" was a tramp freighter, but he'd spent too many long hours, as well as too many credits, over the years carrying out modifications on her. Her hyperdrive, and most of her other systems, were full-on military spec. And she carried a decent battery of seeker missiles, carefully mounted in hidden launchers, to back up her gauss cannons. The sensor package had similarly been overhauled and upgraded more than once, along with her shields and tracking software, so Carson's report was enough to give him pause.

Like most of the other crew, Carson was a merc; a cash-for-hire killer who didn't give two-shits what the job was, as long as it paid. But before that, he was ex-navy, a scan-tech, and supposedly a damned good one. Until drink, drugs, and a few of his other, more unsavoury, habits got him thrown into military prison and then dishonourably discharged. Still, the man was good at his job.

The ex-sailor looked up again, "Might not be a bad time to start recharging the hyperdrive, boss."

Nala grunted, "Mind yer business. Besides, if they detect us charging the drive, those wolves out there might just put a shot right into us. I don't trust these Thorian fucks."

"Then why the fuck are we doing business with them, man?"

There was a grunt, "For the only good reason there ever is; because they pay well. Now, you best keep a close eye on that screen and sing out if you see anything."

Still grumbling, Carson turned back to his scope, just as there came a flash, as space was ripped violently asunder, and thousands of tons of armoured warship erupted from hyperspace, heading straight for them.

With a cry he recoiled from the screen.

"Ohhhh, FUCK!!!"

...

With a scream of tortured metal, the ship literally bucked, as the Zeus tore itself back into realspace. Sparks flew, klaxons erupted all over the ship, and warning lights flashed brilliantly on every console.

There was a cry, "Collision course! Impact in thirty seconds!"

Frances barked orders, "Evasive port! Helm hard over! Point defence free. Go for the transports. Rake them as we pass. Take their engines, if you can."

The point-defence autocannons on a warship were a defensive system. A last-ditch stopgap designed to throw up a wall of fire into the path of oncoming missiles. But in a pinch, they could be used offensively, and at close range, their massive rate of fire could wreak havoc.

The ship heaved aside so violently that the gravity shear left half the crew puking and gasping for breath as she screamed past the two docked ships. But the tracking computers didn't concern themselves with such petty trivia. Coldly, methodically, they uncaringly measured ranges, calculated firing arcs, and issued their electronic commands.

The multi-barreled rotary autocannons were dual mounted in fast-tracking turrets. As one they swiveled, and a moment later multiple lethal torrents of heavy calibre slugs tore through the stern of the "Pistolero," ripping the hull apart, gouging chunks out of the ship, and reducing the engines to so much mangled scrap.

The prison hulk, with its armoured hull, fared much better, and though it was holed in a few places, it more or less shrugged off the stream of projectiles that hammered against it with impunity. That is, until the three plasma torpedoes that spat from the aft tubes of the "Zeus" slammed into the unshielded ship, blowing massive glowing craters into its stern quarter.

The lurking vessel lurched over like a punchdrunk sailor on payday, leaving a trail of atmosphere, corpses, frozen water vapour and other debris in its wake.

Aboard the Zeus, there may have been chaos, but it did not reign. Auxiliary systems kicked in, damage control parties went about, extinguishing electrical fires, while injured and incapacitated crew were ruthlessly pushed aside and their stations manned.

Felina was terrified, she had already pissed herself, and she thanked the artificer from the bottom of her heart for his skill. Now she was running behind a medical corpseman, her arms stuffed near to overflowing as she carried a pair of bulky trauma kits, while the seemingly tireless medic moved from compartment to compartment, patching wounds, administering stims, and doing what was needed to get people back on their feet.

They stopped next to a charred figure. It was a technician, and the smoking and sparking relay nearby was evidence enough of what had befallen him. The medic dropped down, tearing at the man's suit, uncovering his readouts, "Damaged, fuck... Gotta patch in. Felina, connect the trauma kit to his support pack and then plug it into mine. He's alive. Good, good..."

The medic grunted, "Well done, Felina, that's it. Here, hold this..."

Whatever it was the corpsman was going to hand her, she never found out. With a sickening lurch she was picked up and thrown into a bulkhead as a massive impact pitched the ship onto its side. Her head slammed against the wall with enough force to have literally bashed her brains out if it hadn't been for the helmet she was wearing. There was the urgent sound of a siren, a scream of escaping air, and the visor slammed shut.

On the bridge, smoke filled the air, and a rating shouted out, "Direct hit amidship by plasma torpedo. Starboard shield collapsing."

Frances nodded, and for the rest of his life Damon would remember just how utterly calm she sounded as she spoke, "Rotate ship, bring us about and present forward shields. Torpedo room, stand by."

The com crackled, "Standing by."

There was a sensation of movement as the ship responded, and her teeth flashed as she smiled, "Volley fire, target lead ship."

The crewman at the tactical station was nursing a few burns from electrical fires from a nearby smouldering console, but that didn't stop him, "Target locked."

"Fire."

Six torpedoes spat as one from the ship's forward tubes. Brilliant spheres of glowing plasma that screamed across space, straight into the front of the oncoming frigate. The savage blast obliterated her forward shield, scorching her hull and tearing at her weapon emplacements.

Frances snorted, "Nicely done," she looked to the XO, "main gun?"

"Charged and ready."

"Then give him the good news."

"Yes ma'am," with a snarl his fist clenched as he barked, "Let him have it!"

The gunner pushed a button, and there was a brilliant flash as the particle cannon lit the sky.

The frigate's shields had already collapsed, and the beam punched through the naked hull like a blowtorch through paper. Cleaving through the vessel from bow to stern and cutting the ship in two. The ship's reactor let go almost instantly, and both halves of the wreck were engulfed in a blinding ball of nuclear fire.

Damon hissed, "Target destroyed."

The other frigate lurched to one side as the blast wave reached for her, but its shields held, and the Zeus shuddered, hull ringing like a bell as it screamed past, guns blazing.

A voice from the damage control station sounded out, "Hits forward; gauss guns and one plasma torpedo. The second torpedo missed. Shields holding."

Damon watched the board as the smaller vessel peeled away, its drive burning bright, "He's running. Heading for jump distance at maximum burn."

"Get after him, helm."

Gail looked up from her station, "He's faster than us, estimate he'll be out of range in one minute."

The Captain gave her a wolfish grin, "Sixty seconds is a long time in combat."

Frances lifted her head, "Guns, go to rapid fire, all forward tubes. I want that ship. Get him for me, and I guarantee a trip to the best little whorehouse on Zesta for you and your gun crews."

The man grinned, "Yes, ma'am!"

The frigate zigged and zagged as it desperately tried to dodge, but torpedo after torpedo slammed into its stern, hammering at it until its shield finally crumbled. Another salvo followed almost immediately, and its already damaged engine blew apart, taking half the ship with it. Frances nodded as life pods spilled from the wreck, "Reverse course, take us back to the transports."

Damon indicated the screen, "What about the lifepods?"

The Captain turned to him, her eyes as cold as the vacuum outside, "What about them?"

...

The smoke of battle had cleared, emergency repairs were being carried out, and at least a few of the warning lights on the various consoles had been extinguished.

Frances eyed her officers as she strode into the ready room. Most looked suitably bedraggled, and she waved them back into their seats before they could rise.

Pouring herself a coffee from the dispenser, she stretched her back and scratched her hair before sitting down, "Firstly, congratulations on a well-fought engagement, you all did the ship proud. So, thank you."

There were a couple of embarrassed murmurs but also a couple of smiles.

She drew a deep breath and gave a weary sigh, "And now, the cost," she gestured, "Doctor Ostrow?"

The chief medical officer aboard the Zeus was a spry, silver-haired man, but despite being one of the oldest members of the crew, or so he thought, the twinkle in his eyes made an absolute mockery of his attempts to appear sober and fatherly. Instead, he came across more as the mischievous uncle everyone should probably have been ashamed of but liked too much. He was a good chess player, but his expressive face made him terrible at poker. He had a wicked sense of humour, and Frances liked the man immensely.

Right now, however, he looked a bit weary, which, given the circumstances was hardly surprising, but he still managed a smile as he put down his coffee cup, "Actually, Captain, the butcher's bill isn't so bad this time. We have twenty-two in sick bay with various injuries ranging from electrical burns to broken bones. A couple from the torpedo room suffered radiation exposure and are undergoing treatment, other than that only crewman Santiago is serious. He was electrocuted when a relay blew up in his face, and even though his suit took most of the brunt of it, he suffered from third degree burns and a broken back."

"A broken back?"

The doctor nodded, "Yes, he was being treated when the impact from that last torpedo hit threw him hard against a bulkhead. It shattered two of his vertebrae. I've got replacements being printed, but the surgery is a bit finnicky."

The Captain sipped her coffee, "Prognosis?"

"Oh, he'll be fine. The nanites will take care of the burns and repair his skin. Surgery on his back will take a day, and I'd recommend at least forty-eight hours of bedrest afterwards, then another forty-eight for physiotherapy to make sure everything's working. After that I should be able to certify him fit for duty."

"Thanks doc, and if I haven't said it already, your team did good. I'll take a walk through medical later if that's okay?"

He sniffed, "Welfare check?"

Laughing, the Captain gave him a patently false look of indignation, "Hell no. I was gonna tell the lazy bastards to get back to work, but if you're going to get all soppy about it, I suppose I could at least pretend to care," she paused, "uh, doc?"

"Yea?"

"If I happen to have a bottle of medicinal brandy on me when I come through, that won't cause a problem will it?"

The man grinned, "Not so long as you don't forget to pour me a shot."

"Deal," she looked down the table and gestured, "your turn, tactical?"

Lieutenant Ulrich Quadir was a lean, dark-skinned man, with the unblinking gaze and sly smile of a Siamese cat. And like a cat, his movements always seemed somehow measured, precise, and Frances couldn't recall ever having seen him even remotely flustered. She suppressed a chuckle as she recalled hearing how her navigator had been chasing the man for weeks. If anyone was a match for sly Selene, it was this suave little sonofabitch.

He eyed her now, with that wicked fucking smile playing on his lips, and she couldn't help it; there was just something about the man that set her to thinking evil thoughts.

As if reading her lascivious imaginings, his smile widened ever so slightly, and he carefully cleared his throat, "We used up about twenty percent of our torpedoes, and the autocannon magazines have been reduced by a roughly similar amount. We have sufficient materials in the storage bins that I can begin fabricating enough ammunition to restock the autocannons, that'll take perhaps a day. Obviously, we'll need to dock at a suitable supply station to replenish our store of torpedoes. The Chief's modifications to the main gun held up, and so far, its performance exceeds specifications. So, in short, our offensive firepower remains unimpaired."

She looked at him, "And our defences?"

He pursed his lips, "Ah, well, as stated, we can top-up the autocannon ammunition for point defence in a day or so, however when it comes to shields and armour, there are definite issues. It might be best if I refer you to the engineer for an update regarding those."

Frances nodded, "Very good, and as I said earlier, the gunnery of you and your team was spot on, and I wasn't kidding about what I said. When we get back to Zesta, they have a reward coming."

He grinned, "Thank you, ma'am, I'll let them know."

With a nod she turned to the Chief Engineer. He was a squat, bruiser of a man, born and raised on a high-gravity world. He had a bald, bullet-like head, a face that could curdle milk and the shoulders and hands of a wrestler. And how in hell he got that walrus moustache into a resp mask was beyond her. Currently he sat there, glowering, as if he wanted to strangle her with his bare hands, and given what she'd just done to the ship, she couldn't really blame him.

"Alright, Chief, out with it."

The man sniffed, "Riiight, well if yer quite done breaking stuff, there might be a few things I'd like to mention, just a few, mind."

"Ahuh?"

"That little maneuver with the microjump for instance? Well, that caused buckling and stress fractures all over the goddamn place. And the cascade when the hyperdive blew up? Oh, sorry, did I not mention that the hyperdrive blew up?"

She sighed.

"Well, there are bits of it scattered all over main engineering. But it's okay. We managed to put most of them out before they set fire to anything too important, like say, my assistant engineer - she'll be fine by the way. Anyway, the cascade blew systems and safeties just about everywhere, so, there's that."

"And the battle damage?"

He shook his head with a growl, "Not too bad. We took a hard hit that blew the starboard shield generator and buckled the armour on that flank, and we got holed in a couple of places, but otherwise we're not in too bad shape."

Rising from her seat, she took the coffee pot round to refill his cup. Like her, he preferred it dark as sin and hotter than Hell, so at least the man was civilised, "Repair estimates?"

He shrugged, "Stress buckling and armour damage are an easy fix. It's grunt work for the most part. I have the machine shop manufacturing what we need, and the repair robots can deal with that. The burn-outs will take time. There's more than a few, and we have to trace and test each damaged system until we find them all. We have some spares in stores to replace the worst damaged components, and I'm printing more as we speak."

"Shields?"

"Well, the starboard shield generator is completely buggered, but at least the fucking thing didn't blow up. It'll need a complete rebuild, and the housing is cracked, but it can be fixed. It will take a few days though," he gritted his teeth and drew a breath, "it's the hyperdrive that's bothering me. The damned thing is completely trashed."

"Can you fix it?"

His brow furrowed in concentration, "Frankly, the book says no. Those things are delicate, precise pieces of machinery, and the parts used in their construction are computer-built to some exact specifications."

Leaning back against the table she folded her arms and turned to him, "Okay, so it's impossible. How long until it's done?"

He snorted, but couldn't help grinning, "Oh, you're lucky I'm such a happy soul, I kid you not. Anyway, I think I can probably cobble together something. It won't be pretty, and it won't be fast, but it should at least get us home... eventually, that is."

Patting him on the shoulder she nodded, "Thank you, Chief, I don't know what I'd do without you. And I'm sorry I broke your boat."

"Boat?!"

She left the man spluttering, and turned to the commander of her marine detachment, "Anyway, I believe you're up next. You ready?"

Major Dimitri nodded, and the hawk-like woman at his side gave her an evil grin, "Hooyah."

She sipped from her cup, "Jolly good."

...

Felina was sitting on her bunk, rocking back and forth as tears streamed down her face. The purple discolouration of the bruise under her left eye marred her face, and her body was already sore from the sobs that had wracked it. Some of it had been fear. The only fight she'd ever been in before today had been with another girl over a cheating boyfriend, and she'd lost.

She'd never felt anything like it as the ship pitched and shuddered around her, klaxons blaring and the scream of escaping air making her ears ring. She'd thought that any second she'd be killed by a stray hit, or blown into space to die the loneliest of deaths as her air ran out.

But much of it was guilt. Guilt that not only had she had escaped almost unscathed as others around her were burned and mauled, but that she was just sooo fucking relieved that it was them, and not her.

So, she sat there, still half in her vac suit, smelling her own piss and vomit, and wept.

The door chimed again. She had no idea how many times she had missed its ring, but this time it slid aside, and Helen came in. She took one look at the distraught woman, and a moment later Felina felt strong arms wrapping around her, and a gentle voice murmured in her ear, "Hey now, you're okay, I got you."

She stammered, barely able to form words, "I-I was s-s-so scared. I t-thought..."

The girl held her, "I know, I know, it wasn't fair."

"F-fair...?"

"We trained for this, practiced for it, and at the end of the day, we chose it. You didn't get to do even that. You just got dumped right in the deep end."

Fingers brushed the hair from her eyes, and a tissue wiped the snot from under her nose. Helen eyed the bruise and smiled, "Here, let's get this sorted."

Moving across the small room, she nudged a panel on the wall. It slid aside to reveal a medkit. Carrying it back to the bunk, she rummaged inside before producing a tube of cream. Smearing some on her fingertips, she gently applied it to the bruised skin.

Felina felt a moment of cold and then sighed in relief as the pain all but vanished.

Helen smiled, "There, that's better. Now, let's get you out of this monkey suit and into the shower," she looked about, "where's your bunkmate?"

"M-medical."

"She hurt bad?"

"Broken collarbone."

Helen shrugged, "Oh, she'll be okay then. Probably be back here right as rain in an hour or so."

Working the seals, she wriggled the almost supine woman out of the vac suit. Felina was too exhausted to help much or even feel embarrassment as Helen reached down and worked the umbilical connections, "Guess you were in a bit of a hurry to get this off earlier. Smells like a couple of seals got disconnected."

"S-sorry, I..."

The woman hugged her, "Hey, it's okay, it's over now, and you're safe."

Felina sniveled, "I p-puked in the helmet... after I took it off. C-couldn't reach the bin on time."

"Good thinking, easier to clean up," she grinned, "actually, you could put it back on, and it would clean itself. You'd be surprised how often vertigo makes a spacer puke in their helmet."

Felina made a sound that was almost a chuckle, "No thanks."

"Yea, it would really fuck up your hair. First time I did it, I think I had to wash mine about six times before I could get rid of the smell. It made me so late my date thought I'd bailed on him and went home. I ended up sitting alone in the station cafeteria, eating breadsticks and drinking water. I must have looked soo pathetic."

This time there was an actual giggle, "Hope they made it up to you later."

She smirked, "Oh, he did, and then some."

Helping her to her feet, Helen supported the woman as she shambled to the bathroom and into the shower cubicle, "Sorry, I can't run the water for you to make sure it's warm enough. The recyclers are pretty good on the ship, but still, we're not supposed to waste it."

"S'okay."

Thankfully, the water wasn't bad, and Felina sighed as its warmth eased the knots in her shoulders and stomach. She sighed again as hands reached in to work shampoo into her hair, "Thanks."

"No problem," there was a chuckle, "we're going to have to mop this floor down when we're done though. The spray's going everywhere."

"You... you could get in..."

That elicited a snort of laughter, "Yea, you're definitely not thinking that through. You see the size of this cubicle? We'd be like sardines in a can. They'd have to get someone from engineering to peal us out of the thing."

There was more sniggering as she ran her fingers through Felina's hair while she rinsed it, "You ever see that episode of Emmerson and Picasso, where they're investigating corrupt officers on a space-dreadnaught or something? There's this hot shower scene, where they make out together, and there's water and steam everywhere? I watched that with some bunkmates, and we were like hooting with laughter 'cos no way that would work."

"Didn't see that one."

"Oh, you should, it was hilarious. Picasso's what, two metres tall? I mean, he's a big guy. He'd barely fit in the cubicle by himself, but somehow, he got a woman with boobs the size of footballs in there with him, and they actually manage to fuck? Yea, that's not happening."

"Isn't Emmerson a telepath?"

"Yea, so?"

"So, it's a space adventure with a cyborg and a telepath, saving mankind by fighting crime and aliens, and it's the size of the shower cubicles that you think's unrealistic?"

There was an indignant snort, "You try squeezing a lover into one of these things, and then we'll see what you think."

Felina laughed, "Fair enough."

Once out of the shower, Helen went to work with a warm towel, and Felina closed her eyes with a sigh as the woman rubbed it across her back and down her limbs. She almost groaned as she felt the stress leaving her body, "Ooh God, that's good."

"Feeling better?"

"Much."

Easing the woman towards her bunk, she helped her sit and dimmed the lamp, "Okay, you snuggle up under those covers, and I'll clean up all that water in the head before I go."

Felina gave her a puzzled frown, "The head?"

"Old navy term for the toilet, think it goes way back."

"Oh."

It didn't take long; the bathroom cubicle simply wasn't that big, so it was only the work of a few minutes to wipe it all down and leave it fit for inspection. Helen ran an eye over the gleaming surfaces and grinned, "Good enough."

She dumped the cloth wipe in the recycler chute and sauntered back into the cabin, "That's me done. Get some sleep, I'll come back and check on you later, to make sure you're okay."

There was a quiet voice, almost a murmur, "Helen?"

"Yea?"

With a soft rustle, the blankets were pushed back, "You think there's room enough in here for two?"

Helen swallowed, looking down at the woman's naked form, her smooth olive skin, the curve of her hips, the enticing swell of her breasts, and those gorgeous eyes, "Oh, dear lord..."

Her heart was thumping wildly, and she could feel the temptation, the warm tingling sensation between her thighs. Her lips were suddenly dry. She could do it; the woman was so grateful she would give herself to her, and she could just take her, do anything to her. Slowly she reached out with a hand that was almost visibly shaking. Only to draw the blanket back up to Felina's chin, covering her, "No..."

Felina's voice was almost a whimper, "Don't you want me?"

"Oh God, yes..." she blew out a breath as she tried to still her racing heart, "but not... not like this."

"Why..."

Helen shook her head, "You're hurting. You're scared, and you're lonely, and I'd be taking advantage."

"C-could you maybe hold me?"

With a smile, Helen wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close, "You don't need to be frightened. I'm here for you."

The woman snuggled in close, her breath warm on Helen's neck, and there was a mischievous chuckle, "I won't be frightened tomorrow, you know, so maybe..."

With a sigh, Helen tightened her grip, "You ask me again tomorrow, and I might not be quite so chivalrous."

"Good."

,,.

The ship was back at action stations as they moved back towards the two crippled transports. They could have used the main drive to sweep back around and been back into firing range in minutes, but Frances chose to maneuver more slowly, using the time to carry out emergency repairs, rest her crew, and treat the wounded. Besides, she'd seen the damage they'd inflicted on both ships. They weren't going anywhere.

She glanced up as the access to the bridge slid open to admit her most junior officer, "Good of you to join us, Miss Kristianson."

Helen blushed, "Apologies, Captain, I was settling our passenger."

Perhaps it was something in her voice, or maybe there was more to the flush that coloured her cheeks than she wanted to show, but she noticed the Captain giving her something of an appraising look from the corner of her eye, and her lips may just have twitched ever so slightly, "How is she?"

"A bit shaken, ma'am, and a little shocked, but I think she's getting over it. I told her to remain in her cabin for now."

Frances nodded, "Very good, assume your station, if you please."

With a self-conscious bob of her head, she moved across the bridge. The engineer's mate looked up from the terminal as she plugged herself in and nodded, "You okay there, kid? You look a bit..."

"What?"

He shrugged, "I dunno, flustered maybe."

She swallowed, "I'm fine."

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment she thought he was going to say something, but he didn't push it. Instead, with a friendly shrug of his shoulders, he gave her a knowing nod and went back to explaining the intricacies of the emergency power distribution system. It took effort, but somehow she managed to gather the willpower to at least temporarily dismiss the memory of the naked woman inviting her into her bunk and managed to pay attention.

In the command chair, Frances peered at the viewplate and chuckled, "That's quite clever, really."

The image showed the smaller of the two vessels, still hopelessly crippled, but now being towed by its own shuttle. The tiny craft was labouring furiously, clearly pushing its engines well beyond maximum, but even so, she could see it was struggling.

"Nav, how long will it take them to pull themselves far enough out of the gravity-well to allow them to jump?"

There was a snort as Selene eyed the readings on her board, "At that speed? Days, at least. I could do the calculations if you want, but I'd bet my next paycheck the shuttle's engine will burn out long before they get there."

Scratching her head, the Captain nodded, "I think you're right. My first aircar could go faster than that."

She sniffed, "Tactical; analysis please?"

The rating peered into his scope, "Scans show the sublight engines on both vessels have sustained catastrophic damage and are non-functioning, Captain. But energy readings indicate their reactors are fully operational and providing power. Both vessels have their hyperdrives charged and are raising shields. I'm picking up fire-control and targeting emissions from the both of them."

"Thank you," she turned to the XO, "Damon, keep us bow onto them and reinforce the forward shield. In the meantime, open a channel, split screen. Let's see what they have to say, shall we?"

He nodded his acknowledgement, "Aye-aye, Captain."

A moment later, the viewscreen flickered and split, showing the images of the two enemy Captains on the command decks of their respective ships.

One, a tall, dark-skinned man with a scarred face and devious eyes, sat in his chair, leaning forward towards the monitor as he eyed her intently. Behind him she could just make out a cramped bridge, but his comtech had blurred the pickup to obscure any useful details, and she grinned, "Smart."

The other was an older woman, pencil thin, with an almost cadaverous appearance. She had a hook-like nose and deep-set eyes that burned with the cold light of a hatred that she knew all too well. The woman was dressed in dark coloured civilian garb, but Frances could see that the jacket thrown across her shoulders was Thorian military issue, and the rank insignia patches on the shoulders were those of a Commander.

Unsurprisingly, the woman immediately began with bluster, "We are engaged in peaceful commerce, and this is not Teraxan space. You have no right to attack us in this way. I demand an explanation!"

Frances eyed the other Captain, but he remained silently watchful, so she turned her gaze to the woman and smiled pleasantly, "You are slavers, and I think today you will find that anywhere within range of my ship's guns is Teraxan space, Commander."

The woman heard the accent immediately, and her eyes went wide, "You're Thorian."

Frances shook her head slightly, "Not for a very long time."

There was a hiss, "Traitor."

"As you say."

The woman glared at her, "What terms do you offer?"

"Simple enough; surrender your vessel and your cargo, and I won't kill you."

There was a sneer, "Ha! If you even try to board my ship, I'll flush the cargo hold. and the breeders will be gone. If you wish to save the sluts, you'll need to sweeten the pot."

Frances pursed her lips, "Is that so?"

She turned to the XO, "Damon, lock onto that ship, target their reactor and begin charging the main gun."

He nodded and pointed to the gunnery officer.

On the screen, the woman's eyes flicked down to the warning light that appeared on her board. She looked back at Frances, "What are you doing?"

The Captain shrugged, "According to you, it seems I cannot rescue your victims before you murder them all, and I'm not going to risk my marines in a futile boarding action. So, in about sixty seconds, when my main gun has fully charged, I am going to fire into your ship and destroy you."

"That would kill them."

"Correct, and that decision would haunt me for a long time," she leaned forward, her voice hardening, "and the only thing that would ease my conscience would be knowing that when I finally get to Hell, you and your crew of vermin will already be there."

"You're bluffing."

She sat back, "Well, if you had the time, you could ask the crew of the last slaver ship we encountered about that," she sniffed, "of course, you'd need to hold a seance first."

The woman growled, "Teraxians are not so hard. They value life too much, or say they do at least, to be so cavalier with such slaughter."

Frances met the woman's eyes, and Helen felt a cold shiver run down her spine as she spoke, "They prefer the term 'Teraxan' these days, and slaughter and I are old friends, Commander. Besides, as you said yourself, I'm Thorian."

...

Curtis groaned, "She's a Thorian? We are so fucked."

There was a snort, as Nala grunted, "They weren't superhuman, and remember, they lost. Now stop whining, find your fucking balls, and get me a scan of their weapons array. There's something funny about that bloody cannon of theirs."

Flicking a few controls, the pirate crewman kept muttering, "They might not be superhuman, but they were fucking psychopaths," he sniffed as he peered into his scope, "and what the Hell am I looking for?"

Nala shrugged, "I'm not sure, but it I think it's charging faster than I'd like," he pointed at the screen, "and look where they are. Is it just me, or are they standing off?"

Still grumbling, Curtis examined readings and frowned in disgust, "Yea, looks like someone's been doing some shady modifications on that thing. According to the power curve, it's charging what? Twelve, maybe fifteen percent faster than it should, and look here," he tapped his board, "it's building up a bigger charge than it should as well. That thing is gonna hit like a fucking truck."

Nala sniffed, "Might be an idea not to get shot by it then."

"You think."

"What are their shields like? They took at least some hits in that scrummage."

There was a pause, "Forward shield's been reinforced," the man made a few more idle noises as he worked, "starboard shields either down or at a low power level, could be battle damage."

"Hmm... Might explain why they took so long coming back for us. Had to do some repairs first."

Curtis looked up, "Does that help us? We still can't move worth a damn."

"It might. It's better than nothing," he considered and then nodded to himself, "okay, program the seeker missiles to home in on their starboard flank. How many launchers do we have left?"

"Three, the other took damage, but Mikey and his techboys are working on it."

"Okay, better than nothing. Set launchers for rapid fire, lock the missiles on their weak side and prime the warheads for proximity detonation, but do not fucking fire until I give the order. If we screw the pooch on this, that bitch will blow us right out of the fucking sky."

"Okay, boss."

Aboard the Zeus, the scantech tapped a control, and looked up from her board, "Captain?"

"Yes, Gail?"

"I can't be sure, but I think my board is showing that the fire control from the smaller target vessel has started concentrating on our starboard flank."

"Oh dear, peeking up a lady's skirt? That's rather rude don't you think?"

"I'd say so, ma'am."

"Well, what do you think we should do about it?"

The rating blinked, "Me? Uh, not get shot there, maybe."

Frances grinned and nodded in agreement, "That does seem wise. Good thinking, Gail. We'll make a Captain of you yet."

The younger woman blushed, and with a shy smile of delight turned back to her board. She blushed even brighter when the rating at the tactical station opposite grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.

Frances drummed her fingers on the armrest of her chair for a moment before turning to her XO, "Alright Damon, if these idiots want to play, 'Fuck around and find out,' I guess we can't stop them, but we might as well make it an interesting experience. So, this is what I want you to do..."

He listened, and after a moment, he began to grin.

...

On the "Pistolero," Curtis looked up from his console, "Missiles locked and launchers ready."

Nala nodded, "If we time this right, we can maybe get our punch in while they're concentrating on the prison ship. We hit that unshielded flank hard enough, and we'll cripple her, or at least do enough damage to seriously fuck her up."

Still concentrating on his board, Curtis gave a shrug, "But how does that help us, Boss? We're still in pretty bad shape ourselves."

With a grunt, Nala spat on the deckplates, "We're slavers. It don't matter that we're only doing the transport for this run, they won't fucking care. If that Navy cunt takes us alive, it's either the hangman's noose or, if we're lucky, a lifetime as castrated slaves doing hard labour in some shithole penal colony. Now, I know you don't have much in the way of balls Curt, but me? I wanna keep mine. So, once that first salvo goes in, you target their aft shuttle bay and fucking hammer it. That's the only one big enough for their drop ship, so that's where their marines will be mustered. We kill them, and we have a chance."

He sniffed, "Once that's done, we go aboard. So, get the guys armoured up and the assault shuttle prepped; full kit, including boarding grenades. Two strike teams, I'll take one and go for the bridge, Tell Jabo he's going for the engine room with the second team."

There was a snort, "We're gonna board them?"

"Yup, we'll take that bucket of bolts and strip down what's left to make repairs, then dump the hulk into the gas giant."

"We taking prisoners? Cos that bitch of a Captain had some nice tits."

Nala snarled, "Pull your head out of your ass, you fucking clown. We'll be going in full throttle, maximum firepower - all guns blazing. Overwhelm them, don't give 'em a chance to recover or regroup. So, we won't be worrying about no damned prisoners," he shrugged, "I suppose if they surrender fast enough, we might grab a few survivors, but first order is to seize the ship. Which means we gun down anyone and everyone who gets in the way, understand?"

"Sure thing, Boss."

"Right, I'm going down to the shuttle bay to get ready. You're in charge up here," he glared at the man and stepped closer, almost looming over him, and his voice hissed, "do not fuck this up."

Mouth suddenly dry, Curtis nodded.

...

Frances turned to the Commander of the prison ship and gave her an almost amiable smile, "You have about thirty seconds left. What's it to be?"

The woman only shrugged, "Too thin. If all I have to look forward to is either death now, or a slow death in slavery, then what do I have to lose? If that's your offer, Captain, you may fire at your convenience... unless..."

"Unless?"

"A small concession, that's all. My freedom. Grant me that, and I will surrender the ship."

"What about your crew?"

The thin smile on the woman's face was nothing if not chilling, "They failed me. I have no forgiveness for failure. You may do with them as you will."

Pursing her lips, Frances considered. Looking at the timer, she had about twelve seconds left to decide. Closing her eyes for a moment, she gave a weary sigh before nodding to the XO and looking back up, "Very well, I accept your concession, but have one of my own."

"What?"

"Your ship is surrendered as is. Which means no purging your logs or computer banks. I want all data and materials you have regarding your little... operation."

The woman shrugged, "Agreed."

Frances eyed the creature on the viewscreen, disgusted by her self-serving lack of loyalty, "I have to say, Commander, you are a credit to the Thorian Navy."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

...

Jabo was short, stocky, and as mean-tempered and stubborn as a Vermite Wolverine. He had always been a thug, but he was good at it. He had spent a dozen years as a Marine, and then a few more as a pirate, and he checked and rechecked his blaster carbine with the unthinking competence born of years of experience.

Behind him, the crew of the assault shuttle finished their pre-flight checks. They might not have had the polish of a Navy crew, but they certainly had the skill. The shuttle sat there, like an evil cross between a deaths-head moth and a scarab. It was festooned with autocannons and missile launchers, admittedly all designed for close support, but handy nonetheless. And as he always said, "You can never have enough guns."

Once done, he looked back at the three dozen mercs that made up the boarding crews. They were a hard bunch; murderous, vicious, and utterly ruthless. Moving among them, he carried out last-minute equipment checks, running a professional eye over their weapons and the seals of their armoured vac suits.

He paused before one of his crew, a lumbering giant of a man, and shook his head as he took in the portable assault blaster the man was carrying, "You taking that cannon with ya, Bull?"

The merc grinned, slapping the gun affectionately, "Sure thing, Jab. Betsy here's the only gal who's never let me down."

Jabo nodded philosophically, "Fair 'nuff, you make a cute couple, and I'm happy for ya, but you're on point. I don't want you behind me with that fucking monster."

"Hey! Betsy's sensitive, Jab. Don't be calling her no monster."

With a grin, Jabo nodded, "Yer right, apologies, Betsy, but you're on point," he hooked a thumb at Bull, "I don't want you behind me with this fucking monster."

Leaving the man laughing, Jabo moved on, looking up as Nala stomped into onto the deck.

He lumbered across the hold, his armoured boots clomping on the metal deckplates, "We ready?"

"Sure thing, Boss."

"Then get em aboard."

Jabo turned and waved, "Boarding stations! Get aboard! Assholes and elbows! Assault seating, you know your places. Bull! Up front with me."

They had all done this before, many times. Slammed into a ship, murdered anyone who got in the way or offered resistance, took whatever and whoever they wanted, and left a trail of corpses in their wake. There might have been a few dry mouths, but nobody balked, nobody ran scared, they knew better.

Nala sat with his squad, heart thumping, adrenaline pumping through him. He felt the thrum of the shuttle's engines powering up, the whine of the gun turrets moving, and the hiss of the missile ports opening. Next to a good fuck, this was the best feeling in the world. He lived for this shit.

Seeing the thumbs up from the pilot, he grinned and keyed his helmet communicator, "That's us ready, you set?"

Up in the bridge, Curtis nodded, "All set here, missiles are zeroed in."

"Okay then."

He took one last look along the interior of the cramped shuttle and keyed his mike.

"Open fire."