Olympus Beckons Pt. 08

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

Olympus Beckons - Part 8: "All Hands - Repel Boarders."

"Pistolero" was ostensibly a tramp freighter, a battered-looking thing, typical of the many myriad independent freighters and the like that oft plied the remote spacelanes between colony and station out on the rim. But after a lifetime of being put to every manner of use, some more nefarious than others, by a series of often unscrupulous masters, her systems had been modified beyond almost all recognition.

Her armament, for instance, should have consisted of nothing heavier than light battery, and not the rapid-firing gauss cannons mounted on her prow. Those guns, and her concealed missile launchers, gave her a decent punch, for a Privateer. They were ideal for threatening merchant ships and could even knock out the gunboats and light corvettes that were all that some systems could afford as escorts.

But they were never, not in a pirate's worst nightmare, designed to take on a true warship. The Pistolero was fast, far faster than any old Invictus class ship. She was meant to run like Hell the minute she caught sight of her, not go toe to toe with a hulking armoured monstrosity like Zeus.

But that was all they had, and this was where they were.

Up on the bridge, Carson licked his dry lips and wiped at the sheen of sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand as he shook his head, "Fuck".

Blowing out a breath, he looked down at his console, fear making him hesitate for an instant before his shaking fingers stabbed at a control.

...

"Incoming!"

Frances lifted her eyes at the shout from tactical but made no reply. Glancing to her XO, she gave the man the briefest of nods before reaching up to slam shut the visor on her suit.

Seeker missies were classed as "light" munitions in the deadly realm of ship-to-ship combat. They were fast, nimble and short ranged. Each one being barely the size of a coffin, allowing for a decent magazine capacity in even a smaller ship. But they paid for those speed and size advantages by having a fairly pitiful warhead. Weighed against the shields and armour of a cruiser, that warhead was less than ideal.

But the crew of the Pistolero were desperate, not stupid. They knew their weapons were light, but they also knew their enemy was wounded, damaged in the brutal earlier exchange of fire. Her shields were weakened, her armour thinned. Now it was time to see if she had been lamed enough.

Each of the four missile launchers on the Pistolero was fed by a six-shot rotary magazine, and as the gauss cannons opened up, they went instantly to rapid fire. One of the launchers had been damaged, and even after hurried repairs, it jammed almost immediately. But despite that, it took them less than a minute to put nineteen missiles into space. All homing in on their pre-programmed target.

The first had barely cleared the launchers when it exploded.

Every point defence autocannon on Zeus opened fire instantly, sending a torrent of high-velocity slugs into space, clawing missiles out of the sky with machine-like precision. The speed of the response stunned Carson, and he felt the bile rising in his throat as one missile after another was torn to pieces or blown apart.

But seeker missiles were difficult targets, and they were quick. At least half of them were destroyed short of their target, but the survivors swept round, homing in on the wounded quarter of the damaged cruiser like sharks following the scent of blood.

For a moment, just one moment, a bright spark of hope burned in Carson's eyes, and he felt the sweet taste of victory on his lips. Only for it to turn to ash and dust, as Zeus rolled like a log, presenting an undamaged shield and intact armour to the incoming fire.

Concussive blasts shook the warship, wreathing one of her flanks in flame, but instead of heeling over like a dead whale, she shook off the blows, her bow righted, and the man's already pallid face whitened to the colour of sour milk as her forward gunports opened.

A hush fell across the bridgecrew of the Pistolero as they found themselves staring at the hellish fiery glow igniting within each of the half-dozen torpedo tubes that were being brought to bear. Those were definitely not light weapons. They were designed for an earlier war, a savage war; one where quarter or mercy was neither asked, nor given. They were for challenging other warships, not upstart pirates, and when they struck, they would smash Pistolero utterly flat.

"Shiiit..."

Carson stabbed at the controls, his shaking figures fumbling, "We surrender! Don't fire! Do you hear me? For the love of God, hold fire!"

Aboard Zeus, Frances pursed her lips, her fingers drumming a slow dreadful rhythm on the arm of her command chair as she considered the terrified voice coming over the com, and for a moment, Damon thought she might just ignore it and blow the poor bastard right out of the sky, surrender or no. But then she drew a deep breath and stirred.

"Damage report?"

He glanced at his board, "Shields holding; some minimal leakage resulting in minor buckling to portside armour. No impairment to hull integrity or internal systems, no casualties."

Pointing at the display, she sniffed, "Status of that... object?"

"She's dropped her shields and ceased fire, Captain."

Her lips moved and Damon thought he heard a murmured whisper, "Pity."

"Beg pardon, Captain?"

She shook her head, "Nothing."

Reaching forward, she keyed a command into her comlink, "Pistolero, this is Zeus. We acknowledge your surrender, though, I confess to being a little disappointed. Are you not even going to threaten us with the lives of your cargo? Why, it's almost as if you're not taking us seriously."

With an evil grin, she turned to Damon, "Maximum overloads on forward tubes, if you will, X. O. After all," she shrugged, "it's the only way to be sure."

"Yes, ma'am."

There was a terrified blubbering cry, "Nooo! Please! We don't have any left aboard. We transferred them all, I swear."

"He lies..."

The sibilant voice hissed from another monitor, and she turned to the speaker, "You have something to say, Commander."

The woman seated in the command chair of the captured prison transport had the cold unblinking eyes of a snake, and her smile, if it could be called as such, was every bit as reptilian. She nodded, her voice a malign whisper, "Only this, even in the world of slavers and criminals we keep accounts. To do otherwise invites being bilked by these... foreigners. We paid for a certain quantity of merchandise to be delivered to us, and..."

"And what? Get to the point."

"And they are one short, not an uncommon occurrence I might add."

Frances was silent a moment, "Do you have a name for her?"

The slaver shook her head, "We have no use for their names."

Staring at the woman, Frances considered, "And why are you telling me this, Commander? What do you hope to gain?"

Aboard the prison transport, the woman shrugged, "I can see how much you want to kill me, Captain. You long for it, it is written on your face for all to see. With that being given, I think it is to my advantage for your anger to be suitably... diverted."

The hum of computers and the muted chatter of machines all intruded upon the quiet on the bridge of the Zeus. It was also spoiled by the blubbering protests coming from the comlink.

Frances turned to the cowering creature on the viewscreen, her voice terrifyingly calm, "Where is she?"

Carson swallowed, "It's not my fault! He... he made me."

"WHERE IS SHE?"

From the other screen there came a harsh sound, "They made an example of her, Captain. They put her in a vac suit with an hour's supply of air, before ejecting her from the airlock. Then they piped the sounds she made as she choked, and begged, and slowly suffocated, into the ship's hold for the others to hear. It is a thing they do whenever they transit human livestock. An object lesson, I'm told, and a very effective one."

"it's not my fau...."

Damon eyed his Captain. She sat in the command chair, utterly still, unmoving save for a slight tick that had developed at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes had narrowed, and her face lost all complexion as she stared into the comlink. Then she raised her eyes to him.

He swallowed.

"Damon. These people like examples," her voice went flat, "so make one."

The man did not so much as hesitate, "Aye, aye, Captain. Point defence; all guns - walk fire; stem to stern," he pointed, "rake that ship."

"But we surren-"

Carson's final blubberings went unheard, unnoticed and unlamented. The man experienced a brief moment of gibbering horror as the autocannon turrets aboard Zeus swiveled as one, and cut loose.

The bridge of the Pistolero was instantly reduced to a blood-spattered abattoir, as slugs tore through it, punching through armoured vac suits and shredding consoles and corpses with equal impunity. The bridge crew were not simply killed, they were torn to pieces in a hurricane of hyper velocity fire.

In the handful of seconds it took for the autocannons to traverse the length and breadth of the ship, ten thousand rounds, and more, ripped into the vessel, gutting it completely. The carnage on board was indescribable, and it was repeated in every compartment, bar two. It wasn't an execution, it was butchery. The hull was shattered and broken, every system destroyed, and sparks and electrical flame cast lurid shadows as they illuminated the mangled body parts and frozen blood particles that floated and tumbled aimlessly about the debris.

The massacre provoked an ominous silence aboard the assault shuttle as it crept ever closer to its objective. It hung heavily in the air like a funeral shroud, until one of the pilots breathed a horrified whisper, "Fuuuck."

Behind him, the armoured figure of Nala grunted, "No going back now, lads," he nodded to his best slicer, "start the hack."

Jabo moved alongside him, his voice low, "You sure 'bout this, boss? Hacking the door's gonna tell 'em we're here. Maybe we should use the breaching charges? You know, go through the hull? No warning."

Nala turned to eye him. Jabo had been his second in command for years now, his right-hand man, his enforcer, and his rep for being harder than a coffin nail was well earned. So, he gave the man his due, and nodded, "If Carson had got that second salvo in, then maybe you'd be right. That would have taken out their boat bay and maybe half their marines, but now?"

He shook his head, "No, if we use breaching charges now, the bastards will launch their drop ship and burn us off the hull like an unwanted tick. Then we'd be playing hide and seek with a company of marines who know the inside of that scow like the back of their hands. Every junction would be an ambush," he blew out a breath in an angry growl, "least this way we get a stand-up fight, and we can use the shuttle's guns as back up. It's still shit, but it's the best option we got left."

Looking back at the mercs behind him, Jabo moved closer, close enough to quietly murmur, "Are we fucked, boss?"

Nala gave him a grin, "We got a fighting chance, but the odds ain't good."

He pursed his lips and was silent for a moment before speaking again, "Look, we been crewed up for a while now. If you want to surrender and take your chances, you can stay in the shuttle. I won't be thinking worse of you for it, it's the smart play."

The reply was a scoffing grunt, "Fuck that noise. I'm a wanted man. I've got a death sentence waiting for me in a dozen systems. The only thing I'd have to look forward to if I handed myself over to these government pricks is a long drop and a short rope." He shrugged, "Nah, I'm a murderer, a rapist and a slaver. I deserve everything that's coming or me, but I ain't no fucking coward. If I go down, I'm gonna go down swinging."

Nala thumped the man on the shoulder, "You and me both, bud. It's been a good run, and no matter what happens, these navy fucks are gonna know they've been in a fight."

Pulling back the slide on his blaster carbine, Jabo flicked the selector switch on the side to full auto and grinned, "Ain't that the bloody truth."

...

"Captain! I've got an alert on my board. Looks like a targeted electronic incursion into our systems. Someone's trying to open the boat-bay door."

Frances shook her head with a snort, "Sneaky bastards..." she looked up, "Gail, there are burglars skulking about outside. Find them for me."

The scantech nodded, "Yes, ma'am," she turned to her scope and flicked a few switches, "charging capacitors, EMP burst in thirty seconds."

Looking across the bridge, the Captain nodded to the warrant officer manning the electronic warfare console, "What's the story, Mr. Elliot?"

The man was working furiously, his fingers flying across his keyboard, "It's a targeted hack; looks like multiple slicer programs simultaneously launched in a prearranged bundle," stabbing a key, he swore, "the fucker's good... uh, sorry ma'am."

She waved away his blushing apology with a grin, "That's quite alright, trust me, I've heard worse. Any idea how they got into our system so easily?"

"Looks like they had a partial access code, some kind of fragment they probably bought on the black market. Lucky it was just a fragment, or we'd have been right up shit creek witho... um," he blushed again, "well, you see..."

"I think I get the idea. How long until you re-establish control?"

He sniffed, "Defensive programs launched automatically, so the incursion was contained in one system. I'm purging it now. Full control should be re-established in... about ninety seconds."

The Captain nodded thoughtfully, "Ah, I suspect that might be a problem."

There was a cry, "Found them! Stealthed assault shuttle, approximately two thousand meters off our stern. Looks like they're making a rapid approach on the boat bay, ma'am."

Damon moved close, looking at the readings before murmuring, "Good pilot on that thing. He's moving too slow for the shields to repel him. Used the missiles as cover, and they're not waiting on the door to be fully open, just rushing it and hoping they don't miscalculate and slam straight into the damned thing," he pursed his lips, "we could ignite the main drive, that would make their life interesting."

Frances snorted, "It could also detonate a shuttle-full of unknown munitions barely a stone's throw from our engines. Somehow, I'm not sure that would end as well as we'd like," she sighed, "nope, looks like we're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way."

Flicking a switch, she spoke into her com, "Major Dimitri, it appears you've been invited to the ball. Are you ready to dance?"

The response was instant, "You just pick the tune ma'am, and we'll lead them a right merry jig."

"Jolly good."

She keyed another switch, and a klaxon sounded throughout the ship, one not often heard. Looking up at her XO, she gave the man a lopsided grin, "Not done this for a while."

He nodded, "That's for sure."

Turning, she spoke into the console, and her voice rang through every deck and compartment, "Blastermen, man your stations. All hands; repel boarders."

...

In the boat-bay, Sergeant Callahan turned to his companion with a disgusted look, "You're fucking enjoying this aren't you?"

Lopez gave him a ferocious grin and picked up yet another spare magazine for her rifle, "Oh, come on, Finn! We spend years training for this shit, you really telling me you ain't having fun?"

She reached for another magazine, and he snorted, "Holy shit, Esme, how many fucking bullets do you think you're gonna need?"

She gave him a look that was almost comically uncomprehending, "Uh, all of them," she sniffed, "got any spare grenades?"

"Oh, for fucks sake..."

...

The assault shuttle barreled its way into the boat bay like an out-of-control locomotive. Slamming into the deck and sliding forward in a shower of sparks.

The boat bay was probably the largest open chamber aboard ship, other than maybe the cargo hold. But where a cargo hold was a near empty cavern, save for robotic loading equipment, the boat bay was distinctly more crowded. There were all manner of crates and cannisters neatly fixed and secured in racks and the walls were festooned with hatches hiding the machinery for refueling and resupply. Towards the rear of the room was the parking space for an all-terrain vehicle, with an adjacent machine shop for repairs and charging stations for a pair of loaders.

But despite all that, the bay was dominated by the drop ship.

The marine drop ship was a hulking brute of a thing. Easily twice the size of the assault shuttle, with three-times the mass, it actually carried a smaller payload. Every inch of its increased bulk was devoted to armour and defences. It was designed to be the toughest, most survivable vehicle in space, built to descend through anything planetary defences could throw in its path, to shrug off hits that would obliterate lesser craft, and drop a platoon of armoured marines into whatever hell awaited them. It flew like a lead-lined brick, and every drop ship pilot Frances had ever met, and she'd met a few for she'd had quite a thing for them as a younger officer, was certifiably insane.

The assault shuttle finally scraped to halt in the shadow of its larger cousin. Large hatches on the side and rear of the thing snapped open, and the mercs came pouring out, like angry wasps, or soldier ants boiling from a disturbed nest. The first two were killed almost instantly as one of the two ceiling-mounted sentry guns cut them down in a lurid hail of blaster bolts. The other turret poured fire into the assault shuttle, but its armoured hull successfully shrugged off the attack, leaving only glowing pockmarks of molten metal in their wake.

The pilot winced as the bolts spattered off the canopy, marring the transparency with a line of charred stains, "Fuck!"

Slapping the arm of the mercenary sitting in the gunner's chair and pointed, "Kill that thing!"

The spacer grunted in response as the shuttle shook and rattled around him. Under his controls, the dorsal turret rotated nimbly. Flipping the cover on the firing control, he smashed his thumb down on the trigger, and above him twin blasters erupted.

Tracking the fire towards the target, he blew ceiling panels and light fixtures apart as he brought his cannons to bear. With a vicious snarl he found his mark, and the sentry gun exploded in a shower of sparks under a hail of blaster fire, "Yesss!"

The second sentry gun responded with the speed only machine-reflexes could match, spinning in place, and a spray of livid bolts began chewing at the armour protecting the turret.

The gunner winced as sparks flew and warning lights erupted on his console, "Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck."

Outside, Bull stepped from behind an armoured hatch. Shot and molten metal sprayed all around him like an evil halo, but the man barely noticed. Snarling, he aimed his assault blaster upward and pressed the trigger.

The second sentry gun exploded, taking a chunk of deck plating with it, and he laughed.

From behind the landing gear of the dropship, Major Dimitri eyed the explosion with all the detached calm of a professional soldier. This wasn't his first firefight, far from it, and he shrugged philosophically, "Captain's gonna be pissed 'bout that."

Reaching out, he thumped the grenadier crouched next to him and nodded before keying the internal comlink in his helmet, "Now."

His marine detachment had two heavy weapons fireteams in its mix, with one grenadier in each, and they both had their launchers set to fully automatic. The projectiles they launched weren't the crude, hand-thrown incendiaries of more primitive times, but self-guided explosive munitions that streaked across the boat bay, their robot brains seeking suitable targets for their mindless self-immolation.

Jabo and his assault team were moving smoothly to cover when they started raining down all over his position.

Thankfully, most of the grenades weren't straight up anti-personnel frags, but they caused havoc nonetheless. The world around him exploded in a chaotic mess, as EMP bursts fucked up the targeting display of his suit, clouds of reflective "tinsel" distorted and diffused the bolts from his blaster, and concussive shocks knocked half his ream from their feet, sending them sprawling all over the place.

From their positions, the marines opened up, and unlike the grenades, they were out for blood.

Blaster bolts either bounced off or punched through the armoured vac suits worn by the mercs, the com channels were filled with the grunts and whimpers of wounded men, and the bodies began to hit the floor.

On the other side of the shuttle, Nala threw himself aside as a gravitic grenade ate one of his men, including the cover he was hiding behind, leaving a gaping crater in the deck plates.

On the bridge Frances, winced as her monitor relayed the carnage. She keyed her comlink with a sigh, "Um, Major, apologies for back-seat piloting, but I would appreciate it if your men tried to avoid blowing holes in my ship, please."

The Major shot a merc in the chest and ducked down to avoid the fusillade of return fire that blew burning holes in the crate he was lurking behind, "Fuck, I hope this thing's not full of something explosive."

He grunted as he rolled behind a crate that was a little less on fire and keyed his mike, "Uh, yes ma'am, bit busy, ma'am, will do what I can, ma'am."

On the bridge Frances rolled her eyes at the sarcasm, "That'll teach me."

Damon chuckled, "You deserved that."

"Yup," she grinned, "closest I've ever come to hearing the man telling me to fuck off."

Down in the boat bay, the mayhem intensified as blaster bolts crisscrossed this way and that, exploding off the hull plating, blowing apart crates, chewing through men and machine with impunity. The gunner on the shuttle let loose with his belly and nose guns, laying down what support he could, the heavy bolts scattering marines as they blew gaping holes in whatever they were taking cover behind.

Aboard the dropship, Hillary "Bunny" Hopper sat in her pilot's chair, grinning cheerfully as she targeted the shuttle. Her nickname was more for her nightime proclivities and the number of bunks she often bounced in, out, and on top of, than anything else, and she was definitely considered one of the "friendliest" crew members aboard Zeus by her many "admirers". But that didn't stop her from being a stone-cold killer with only the vaguest sense of proportion when it came to a firefight.

"Hi, sweetie," she whispered, blowing a kiss at the image on her console as she casually pressed a button.

A sinister movement caught the attention of the pilot of the assault shuttle, and he looked up in horror as the cannon on the drop ship rotated, "Oh shi-"

The front of the shuttle blew up as a cannon round went straight through the cockpit.

The explosion rocked the boat bay, sending shrapnel and debris bouncing off bulkheads and scything through bodies in a shockwave that hurled men and equipment in all directions.

Major Dimitri swore sulphurously, "Check fire! Dropship, check fire, you maniac! If you'd missed, that shot could have gone through the fucking hull."

"If I'd missed?"

"Yea."

She sniffed, "I don't miss."

Muttering angrily, he snarled into the com, "When this is done, you and I are gonna have a talk."

Hillary settled back in her padded chair and sipped from the can she casually held in her off-hand, "I think he's pissed. We're gonna have a talk."

Her co-pilot grinned and wagged his eyebrows, "Just a talk?"

"We'll see."

At the far end of the boat bay, Sergeant Lopez ignored the explosion as she made a tiny adjustment to the sights of her gauss rifle. She and Callahan were both part of the recon team and their chameleon armour was lighter than the carapace worn by the typical marine, but for their role it had certain advantages. Lying atop the ATV, she was so well concealed to be all but invisible.

The rifle she carried was bulkier than an energy weapon, and carried far less ammunition, but the lurid bolts fired by a blaster would have instantly given away her position. Besides, the hyper-velocity explosive slugs her rifle fired were more than deadly enough to do the job.

Looking through the scope, she murmured, "Hey, how 'bout a friendly contest? Blowjob for the winner?"

From wherever the Hell Callahan was hiding, there a quiet reply, "For the love of... I'm old enough to be your dad."

"So? My dad's purty hot for an old geezer."

There was a chuckle, "Geezer?"

She grinned, "So, you telling me you don't fancy a blowjob?"

"I always fancy a blowjob, but, uh, let's make it a blowjob or a sixpack of beer, winners' choice?"

"Okay then..." she huffed, "jeez, you really are an old geezer. Think I'm gonna start calling you 'pops.'"

There was a moment of fulminating silence, "Right, you cheeky bint, you're on! Headshots only, and let's make it a blowjob, a sixpack of beer or a spanking - winners choice."

Downrange, Bull stepped out from cover, his assault blaster sending an unending stream of fire at the marine positions, blowing apart their cover, mowing down at least two, bellowing his warcry as he did, "Lets rockkkk!"

Lopez put a round straight through his faceplate, "One for me."

...

Captain Frances Frobisher stalked through the remains of her boat bay. It had been a hard fight, and it showed, with marks from blasters, explosive rounds and myriad heavy weapons fire marring the bulkheads. She stopped to eye a two-meter-wide hole melted through the deck plating, and sighed, "Fucking gravitic grenades, I hate those things."

Technicians and damage control parties were swarming all over the place, many attempting to extinguish the still burning remains of the assault shuttle, and she beckoned to the senior man. He padded over, and she gestured, "Is that thing going to blow up? If it is, feel free to shove it over the side."

Pulling off the hood of his fire-fighting outfit, he wiped the sweat and grime from his face before answering, "Don't think so, ma'am. Somehow, the nutball who put a HVW round into it managed to take out the cockpit without detonating any of the ordnance she was carrying. Mind you, the shot still went straight through the bastard thing and damned near punched a fucking hole in the side of the ship. But such is life, I guess," he flushed, "uh, sorry ma'am."

Eyeing the devastation, she shook her head with a sigh, "That's quite alright. I've..."

"Heard worse?"

She gave him a wry grin, "Indeed."

Leaving the man to his work, she moved to the aft bulkhead where several marines warily stood guard over a short line of captives, all stripped, on their knees, with hands on their heads, and faces pressed against the steel wall. From the look of things, if any of them so much as farted out of turn, it would be the last thing they ever did.

As she moved closer, she cast an eye on other crewmen who were busily stuffing corpses and severed limbs into body bags and dragging them over to the growing pile on the far side of the bay. The fight had been distinctly one-sided, and her marines had been thoroughly ruthless, "Good."

There were eight prisoners in that miserable row, and at least half were bloody and scorched with the wounds and marks of combat. A couple of corpsmen were working their way along the line, or would have been. One seemed to be arguing with a marine, an angry looking young woman who was gesturing back towards the corpses.

"What do you mean, it's not part of the head? I shot him in the neck! That's gotta be part of the head! What are you, a fucking veterinarian or something?"

The medic was spraying an anti-burn aerosol on a man's shoulder, and he paused, "Look, I don't have time for this shit. Medically, the neck is a distinct region that connects the head to the torso. Now, unless you're here to help, will you just fuck off."

The woman stomped off, muttering dire threats and sulphureous comments about where the man could shove his, 'Medical opinion'.

Frances watched her go before turning to the officer in charge, "Leftenant?"

The woman was wearily sitting on a crate of machine parts, her blaster carbine lying across her knees, when the Captain spoke. But her obvious fatigue didn't stop her as she leapt to her feet. She came to attention and would have snapped a salute, had Frances not waved her down, "Enough of that. At ease, you've earned it."

"Thank you, ma'am."

The Captain gestured around her, "How are your men?"

She sniffed, "We're marines. Tell us when you need us, and we'll be ready, ma'am."

"I never doubted that for a second," she sighed, "what's the bill?"

"Four dead, nine wounded."

"I'm sorry."

The Leftenant gave her a lopsided grin, "Don't be. They bought the farm in combat and went out like marines, ma'am."

Eyeing the thoroughly deadly woman before her, Frances couldn't help but grin, "They did the ship proud; you all did. Is there anything I can get for you?"

The Leftenant shrugged, "We're fine, but thanks for the kind words, Captain, I'll let the guys know what you said, if that's okay."

"Feel free, but I'll be telling them myself first chance I get," scratching her hair she looked about the boat bay again, before turning back to the woman, "How's the Major?"

"He's fine, ma'am. The shot penetrated the shoulder plate of his carapace and singed him up pretty good. But Doc Ostrow says he can regrow the muscles and skin in a couple of days," she laughed, "Major says I pushed him into the path of that shot cos it's the only way I could beat him at hand-to-hand practice, the cheeky pric.... er, sorry ma'am."

Frances waved it away with a sigh, "You know, I'm not a fucking nun. Trust me, I've heard worse."

"Uh, yes, ma'am."

Gesturing at the prisoners, Frances sniffed, "What about them?"

"Twenty dead, twelve wounded," she nodded, "plus these guys I suppose."

"Okay, make sure the corpsmen scan the bodies. I want ID's if possible. Use DNA sampling on any cadavers that were, um..."

The Leftenant grinned, "Exploded?"

"Yes, quite."

"Will do."

With another sigh, Frances gave the woman a weary smile, "And I'm sorry about this, but I'm sending a boarding party onto the prison hulk we captured. It'll mostly comprise of crewmen, but I'm going to need a fireteam to support them. I appreciate your men have just gone through a firefight, and I'm asking a lot, but..."

The Leftenant interrupted, "We're marines, ma'am. You say - we do. Tell us when, and we'll be ready."

"Of course," she turned to go, but paused, "oh, Leftenant, I heard that someone had misplaced a few cases of beer and half dozen bottles of tequila in the marine barracks..."

"Tequila?"

Frances grinned, "Best I.. er, best someone could find on Zesta station. Obviously, we can't leave contraband like that lying about, so, when you get the chance, perhaps you and your marines could dispose of it for me."

The woman frowned, "A few cases you say, and six bottles? Well, I can take care of that I guess," she smiled, "but what about the rest of the guys?"

"Oh, begone, you reprobate."

"Yes, ma'am."

...

Some hours later, Frances was waiting with an armed escort outside the primary portside airlock as the shuttlecraft docked. Beside her was her XO and a pair of security personnel, both heavily armed.

The lock finished cycling and the heavy inner door opened, admitting a pair of marines with a woman standing between them. With a prod of a rifle-butt she was ushered across the threshold and onto the Zeus.

Frances eyed her and could feel the very hackles at the back of her neck rising as she did so.

The woman was lean as a knife, and her face was set in a hard, arrogant expression of a kind Frances remembered well. Her eyes were cold, her lips thin, and she wore the black uniform of a Commander in the Thorian navy.

Ignoring the marines with a haughty arrogance that even her manacles could not diminish, she drew herself upright, "Permission to come aboard, Capt-urk..."

Frances stepped forward and sunk her fist into the woman's midriff with every ounce of power she could muster.

Breath exploded from the prisoner, her legs gave out, and she would have instantly crumpled, had not claw-like fingers grabbed a fistful of her hair, tilting her face up, straight into the vicious punch that smashed her nose flat and sent her spilling to the deckplates.

A foot came down on her throat, cutting off her breath as Frances loomed over her, voice ugly with hatred, "You listen to me, you murderous bitch, and you listen well. I said I'd spare your life, I never said anything about you enjoying it. We're going to lay off here for two days to make repairs, and then tow that piece of shit of yours to the nearest spaceport to drop off your victims and resupply. That's eight days away.

"So, you better convince me I've not made a big mistake by keeping you alive, or I'm going to be consoling myself by spending my off-duty hours beating you to a fucking pulp, understand?"

Frances removed her boot, and the woman gasped for air, coughing and rolling onto her knees. She spat a gobbet of blood onto the deck and peered up, "Pellucidly."

Stepping forward, Damon gestured to the marines, "Take her to medical. Make sure she's thoroughly scanned in case she has an implant or anything of that ilk. Then throw her ass in the brig. I'll be by later to begin the interrogation," he paused and turned to Frances, "uh, that is Captain, unless..."

Looking at the blood staining the deckplates, the Captain shook her head, "No, I couldn't trust myself. I'd probably just end up killing her."

Damon watched the woman being dragged off and then stepped close enough to his Captain to whisper, "Beg pardon, ma'am, but why do you hate her so much, other than the obvious, I mean?"

Drawing a deep breath, Frances closed her eyes a moment, before turning to him, "Because she's me."

"Pardon?"

"She's me. Through a mirror darkly, or whatever. If I'd taken a right turn instead of a left, that would be me."

"How do you figure?"

Scuffing the blood on the deck with the toe of her boot, Frances took a moment before answering, "Walk with me."

As they strolled along the passageways, occasionally nodding to passing crewmen as they bustled about their duties, it seemed to him that the woman was considering her reply.

Finally, she spoke, "You know I'm Thorian, right?"

He nodded, "Everyone does, well, everyone in the ship's company that is, but..."

She cut him off, "Thorian culture is - well was, rigid, unforgiving. My family were of the patrician class. We had both status and wealth. We kept any number of helots and thralls at our estates, and like everyone else, I used them the as I saw fit. They were our property, and I never gave it a second thought. It was... expected."

They paused at an intersction, as a piece of emergency equipment was carried by, and her eyes narrowed as the unwanted memories came back to torment her, "Did you know, well, you couldn't, I suppose, but I beat a girl once for standing in my light," she nodded, almost to herself, "seriously. I was studying and having a hard time with a calculus problem, and I took it out on her, gave her a thrashing, and it was for nothing!

They moved on, only to be interrupted by a crewman carrying a datapad. Examining it she grunted, "Take that to the Chief Engineer, please."

The man moved away and after a moment, she continued, "So, anyway, despite me being a spoiled little hellion with an apparent inability to be even remotely civil to anyone, they managed to arrange a marriage for me. And it was a good one, by all accounts. It would have been acceptable to the state, and it increased the prestige of both families. But, of course, I hated the idea. I hated being treated like a commodity, and I really hated the poor fucker they saddled with me."

"Well, a couple of nights before the wedding, his family had this big social event. Like a party, I guess, to welcome me into the fold, so to speak. It was fucking awful, and I was in the middle of an epic tantrum. But, despite that, they arranged for me and him to get some 'alone time' in the rose garden. He got a bit handsy, and... well, I broke his jaw."

Damon goggled, "You did what?"

"Yup, shoved his face through this ridiculous ceramic plant-pot that was shaped like a cherub or some fucking thing."

The XO was going quite red in the face, as if stifling a guffaw was proving more difficult than he might have hoped. He cleared his throat carefully, "You know, Captain, I'm, beginning to wonder if perchance you may have some anger management issues."

"Ya think?"

He held his finger and thumb a few millimeters apart, and grinned, "Perhaps, just a little?"

"Riiight. Anyway, it caused a huge stink. His family wanted to call the whole thing off, but they were stuck with it as much as I was. Thankfully, our sires managed to put in a joint petition to the Consul, and it was decided I should go off and do my military service, allowing me a few years to 'mature' before returning to my social responsibilities. It wasn't ideal, but I'm pretty sure my fiancé breathed a big sigh of relief when I got off planet."

She blew out a breath, "Military service among the patrician class was seen as the honourable thing, you see, so it didn't look entirely like I was being punted offworld with unseemly haste, but there you have it. But my family was pissed. Me? I did not give a single fuck. I took to military life like a duck to water and started screwing dropship pilots like it was going out of fashion.

"In the meantime, my fiancé joined up as well. We never served together, and the poor bastard got killed within the year in a shuttle accident near some shithole called Besha.

"Later, like, years later, near the end of the war, my ship took down a rebel cruiser. And I'm hailed as a fucking hero by the damned rebels because I refused an order to fire on their lifepods. Well, despite what they say, I didn't do that because I gave a shit about their miserable lives, but because it was possible there were Thorian POW's on some of them. We could have picked up everyone and thrown the fucking rebels out the airlock when we were done with them for all I cared. All we would have lost was time."

She sighed, "The Vice Admiral in command of my squadron was furious. But he offered me a way out. All I had to do was agree to be his concubine, do that and I'd keep my command. Anyway, I told him to get fucked, so he had his bodyguard lay hands on me. Told him to hold me down so he could, 'teach me my place.'"

Damon's face was a picture of horror, "W-what happened? Did he..."

"I stabbed the bodyguard in the throat with a decorative letter opener he kept on his desk, and beat the Vice Admiral to within an inch of his life," she shrugged, "if I'd kept my cool, I could have killed the bastard right there and then, but I was furious. The weasel tried to force himself on me - me!

"Anyway, the marine sentry hauled me off him before I could finish the job, but he still spent a week in sickbay getting his bones fixed and regrowing his testicles. But if I'd just kept my head, I could have snapped his fucking neck and been done with it. I always regretted that."

She blew out a breath, "Of course, there was a gigantic hullabaloo about the whole thing. I mean, striking a superior officer should have merited a death sentence, but any court martial would have been 'problematic', probably resulting in a feud between my family and his. So, Command got together and a face-saving compromise was reached. All I had to do was apologise to the man, accept a demerit for "insubordination" and that would be that. My career would be stone dead of course, but otherwise it would be swept under the carpet, everything forgotten."

The XO studied her, "I take it that didn't happen"

There was a harsh laugh, "Are you kidding? Me? Accept I was in the wrong? Holy fuck, Damon, have we met before? No, I gave them the finger and went AWOL, went into exile. That's the only reason I wasn't on Thoria when the last bombardment turned my family estate into a glass-bottomed crater. Thorian records, what's left of them, apparently show I was 'dishonourably discharged' but that's bullshit. I ran."

She turned to look at the door through which the captive had been dragged, "But if I hadn't. If I'd stayed and done my duty..."

"You're not her. No way, no how."

"Says you."

Damon reached out and turned her back towards him, "Captain, if I may. You are sometimes a pain in the ass to work with, and you push the crew hard, trying to make them the best they can be. But I have never, not once, seen you be anything but fair, no matter how badly we screw up."

He hooked his thumb back the way they had come, "And I'll say this for an absolute fucking certainty. There isn't a snowflakes chance in Hell you would have sold your crew down the river the way that bitch betrayed hers. You are NOT her."

She grinned, "Pain in the ass, huh?"

"Respectfully, of course."

Taking in his smile, she shook her head in an effort to hide her own, "Oh, get back to work, you big sap."

"Yes, ma'am, right away, ma'am, please don't punch me, ma'am."

She giggled; she couldn't help herself, but after a moment she drew herself up, and straightened her tunic, "Very well, XO, you may return to your duties... and Damon?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Thanks."