Olympus Beckons Pt. 10

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

Olympus Beckons - Part 10: "Here They Come."

Khelgar was a busy place. One would have thought it more likely that people would stay in more populous, better patrolled space - closer to the core worlds, and safer than a star system situated on the outskirts of the Rim - but the innermost planet boasted no less than a half-dozen spectacularly beautiful moons. And while the world beneath them still had an atmosphere that was only barely breathable, its surface was almost completely covered in liquid, and teeming with life.

Despite the awe-inspiring weather and truly mountainous waves those same six moons produced, the vast sub-aquatic plankton and krill farms planetside fed a score of planetary systems, while the 'Moons of Khelgar' were a popular tourist destination with a multitude of luxury resorts.

While it was undeniably true the casinos and other 'diversions' on those resorts attracted a certain criminal element, the wealth they generated, and the system's importance as a supplier of protein, meant the place was well protected. Not only by the most advanced of automated defence systems, but also by the best private security outfits money could buy.

The indentured workers toiling beneath the waves might not see much of that wealth, but they allegedly benefited from the protection it provided... allegedly.

Another result of that protection was that the system became a 'stepping off' point for ships heading out into the dark. Of course, the rich patrons patronising the luxury resorts had no desire to actually mix with such itinerant travellers, and so 'Independance Station' was built, and it was situated as far away from those same rich patrons as was physically possible.

While Zeus was making its approach, Frances observed the station as it grew in the viewplate. It didn't seem to have changed all that much since the last time she'd been here; maybe a bit bigger, a bit more of a sprawling construct, but it certainly looked busier. Mind you, all she really remembered about that visit was how hellishly drunk she'd gotten, and that the place had smelled of fish.

"There she is."

Damon's voice brought her back to the present, and her fingers played over the controls of the viewplate, bringing the ship sharply into focus.

The Apollo nestled in the docking cradle, like a wounded animal, all covered in scars. Blackened scorch marks marred her steel hide, and her armour was torn and punctured in several places. Frances slowly shook her head as her experienced eyes played across the gaping hole that had been blasted in her lower decks, "Lucky; looks like it missed main engineering and took out the cargo bay."

She could see the yard-dogs were hard at work, and from this distance, the halo of sparks from their welding torches looked like so many fireflies dancing about the ship's hull.

Apollo was one of the Invictus-B class of ships. Basically, a modified version of the basic Invictus, and Frances pursed her lips. She'd never been entirely convinced that those modifications were worth it. Sure, she was faster, and had a longer-range punch, but she wasn't that much faster. And instead of upgrading her drive, they'd kept the same engines. Which meant to gain that increase in speed, they had to cut the mass; so, she'd lost almost half her armour.

The designers upped her range by ripping out the plasma torpedoes and replacing them with gauss cannons and a battery of heavy missiles, but they'd kept the same main gun, which was stupid. The thing was a mass hog and essentially useless at range. As far as Frances was concerned, there was no point in fucking around. She would have ripped the thing out altogether and replaced it with a truly hellacious broadside of missiles. The ship didn't have the armour to stand and fight and still wasn't fast enough to run, so she might as well beat the shit out of anyone before they got into range in the first place.

She sighed and turned to the XO, "Very well, Damon, you have the conn. Take us in, if you please..."

His acknowledgement was suitably brisk, "Aye-aye, ma'am. I have the conn."

...

Commander Wulf Thorsson looked about as wounded as his ship. Not physically as such; modern medicine meant most physical injuries could be treated and repaired with astonishing speed if given the right care, but the man was obviously exhausted, and he looked like his spirit had been... bruised.

He was a big man, long-limbed and solidly built, and even now, with his full beard of reddish hair, and his icy blue eyes, he looked more like some piratical berserker from the days of yore, than a modern spacer. He towered over her, and she could easily imagine that the man would probably have been happier carrying a battleaxe than a blaster, "I bet he and Jeff would get on like a house on fire," she stifled her grin, "well, somebody's house would probably end up on fire anyway."

But right now, he was clearly hurting. Stepping forward, she extended her hand, "Captain."

He took her grip in his own, careful not to crush her hand even as he growled, "Don't feel much like a Captain. Not yet anyway."

Giving him a sad, lopsided smile, she reached up to grip his shoulder, "I know, but that's what you are now, and I also know Horatio Hawke was not the kind of man who would have picked you to be his second-in-command, if he didn't think he could rely on you to look out for his crew."

She met his eyes, "Was he wrong?"

Drawing a deep breath, he visibly braced himself, "No, ma'am."

"Good man. Now, what is the status of your command?"

He rubbed a hand over his almost shaved head, "Well, apart from that bloody great hole in the cargo bay, we've patched the inner hull and repressurised all compartments. Shields and weapons are back online, and our main drive is functional. The hyperdrive is a bit 'iffy' still, but repairs are progressing. Our armour is shredded but the yard dogs are working on it," he growled, "we might have been in a scrap, but we can still fight, ma'am."

"Casualties?"

His brow furrowed in something like a wince, "We lost twenty-seven crew members, including the Captain, with twice that wounded, six of whom are undergoing various degrees of organ or limb regrowth. All other wounded are more or less fit for duty, or will be in a day or two."

She nodded, "Have you had a memorial for your dead?"

"Aye, it was a spacer's funeral."

"Very good."

With a nod, she slapped him on the arm again, "Best any of us can hope for in the end, Wulf. Will you join me for supper?"

"Beg pardon, ma'am, I thank you kindly, but if it's all the same, I'd like to stay aboard for now. I think it best to be with my shipmates, respectfully."

With a smile, she nodded, "See, that's why Captain Hawke picked you. Go and be with your crew. If there's anything I, or Zeus, can do for you, let me know."

The man nodded slowly, before looking back at her, "He thought highly of you, ma'am. Spoke of you often."

Frances had to shake her head and shrug, "I've no idea why. Apart from when he spoke up for me, I don't think we ever met, other than shooting at each other, that is."

The tall man grinned, "That may be so, ma'am, but his son was a young Midshipman on the Hecate."

Suddenly, it was as if the years rolled back, and she remembered it like it was yesterday. It was near the end of the war. The enemy had more ships, more guns, more everything, and the slow, bloody, process of grinding the Thorian navy into extinction might have been well under way, but it wasn't done yet. The Hecate and the Hotspur were two enemy ships that had been pummeling perimeter defence outposts when she had bounced them both. They had put up a brave fight, but were no match for the big guns of her battlecruiser, and she had blown them both right out of space.

She recalled how one of the ships, already badly mauled, had gamely tried to ram her command when her final salvo had broken its back. What was left of the vessel had keeled over as lifeboats spilled from the wreckage

Settling back in her command chair, she had nodded to the bridge-crew, "Well fought, people. Stand down from 'Action Stations' and prepare to pick up survivors."

The voice that had rang out from behind her was a hate-filled snarl. She particularly remembered the venomous sneering tone, "Belay that order. You will continue the engagement, Captain. Target those rebel scum and destroy them."

The Vice-Admiral was yet another of those stupidly vicious wankers she'd had to contend with throughout the entirety of the war. In his case, in addition to being an arrogant prick of the first order, he had an apparent love of standing on the bridge, presumably posing in some ludicrously dramatic fashion, while not wearing his helmet, instead of being buckled safely into a command chair.

When a jarring impact against her shields had sent the pompous twat flying into a stanchion, she half hoped the silly bastard had been killed outright, but, of course, she wasn't that lucky.

Blinking the memory away, she murmured, "I never knew."

Wulf grunted, "Well, the Captain wasn't the kind of man to get all emotional and such, but he never forgot it was you who refused the order to kill his son. Spoke of it in the wardroom he did, when folks got to talking about the war, and when they got to damning... well... you know."

"Thorians?"

He blushed, but nodded, "Aye."

"Don't worry about it; we deserved it. Did his son survive the war?"

Wulf nodded again, "That he did, ma'am. He was wounded and got a victory medal and all that. He retired after the war and got himself married, settled down with a family on Genarra. I think he writes."

The thought of the young man living a full and happy life, as far from the war as he could possibly get, brought a smile to her lips, and she chuckled, feeling strangely pleased for some reason, "Well, good for him."

The man grinned, "Aye, now, if you'll excuse me ma'am," he sobered somewhat, "but I have messages to record, to send to the families of the fallen."

With a sigh, Frances nodded, "I'd offer to help, but..."

He nodded, "My shipmates, my crew."

She gave him a sad smile and squeezed his arm again, "Aye."

He stepped back and saluted, "Then, I'd best be about it. Good day to you ma'am."

Becoming all business again, she returned his salute smartly, "My best wishes to your crew, Captain. Hopefully we'll talk again later. Good day, sir."

...

The "Ironclad" was as much of a dive as she remembered. It was very much a spacer's bar, patronised by deep spacers and Navy types alike. But despite the worn furniture, the dim lighting and smokey atmosphere, the booze wasn't watered, and it was cheap, and the place had live music.

The walls were lined with ancient, worn-looking posters of far-off holiday resorts, all happy smiles and sunshine, while the corners peeled and curled. Half those places had been abandoned long since, or been bombed during the war, but those leering faces still smiled down from the walls.

The woman on stage was maybe a bit past her prime, but she'd made a game effort to squeeze into a sequined dress that had probably barely fitted a decade ago, and her crooning wasn't half bad. Frances listened a while as she sat on her barstool, nursing her drink. On a whim she used her comlink to swipe a ten-credit tip in her direction.

A half-dozen wallowing freighters had finally mustered in the system, and she'd left Damon to gather them up and get them ready for transit. The crew had been given shore leave, and she'd decided that she had time to get off the ship for once and maybe indulge in a quiet drink.

She remembered this place. She and the bridge-crew of the battlecruiser Sorcerer had gotten royally shit-faced here sooo many years ago in a truly epic session. She couldn't even remember the reason for their revels, not that they ever needed much of an excuse to be honest, given the way the war was going. It was a good crew. She sighed wearily; they were all dead now of course, but she was glad she could at least remember their faces.

Raising her glass to her lips, she paused a moment to softly murmur, "Here's to you, lads."

Draining the glass, she lowered it to the bar, only to be surprised as another was placed before her, and a voice murmured, "I recognise that look. Memories?"

The woman sitting on the neighbouring barstool might have had dark hair once, but it was streaked with grey now, and the lines on her face showed she was at least well on the way to passing through middle age, though her eyes were still bright, and from the look of her, she obviously kept herself in shape.

Frances eyed her, she wore a well-worn spacer's flight jacket over clean coveralls. The blaster at her side was a standard design, and she wore it in a regulation holster, "She's military, or ex-military at least."

Looking about, she picked out the watchful-looking man hanging back a ways, "Bodyguard, maybe?"

Picking up the drink, she nodded her thanks, "Yea, they sneak up on a person," she grinned, "a bit like you, I guess."

The woman smiled and raised her own glass in salute, "Sorry, didn't mean to do that, but you looked a bit lost, Captain."

Frances sighed, lowering her drink back down to the bar in a deliberate movement, "Ah... You know me?"

"Sure do. You're Frances Frobisher, Captain of the Zeus. We, uhm, met," she grinned, "and not that long ago."

Staring at her, Frances shook her head, "I'm afraid I don't recall."

The woman gave her a bright smile, "Oh, I'd be hurt, but truth is, the meeting was sadly all too brief, but I'll say, you definitely left an impression."

Frances was about to reply when the lumbering shape of a spacer appeared behind her and an intruding hand cupped the left cheek of her posterior, giving it a hearty squeeze as the man slurred, "Hey, Navy. How's about you 'n' me get better acquainted? Whatchyasay?"

She blinked and then raised her brow to the woman beside her, "He with you?"

From the look of mischievous delight on the woman's face, Frances could see she was barely managing to contain an enormous grin. Instead, she shook her head, "Nope."

"Good."

Frances's elbow slammed back into the man's face with a wince-inspiring crunch, followed by a thump, as her would-be admirer crumpled in a heap to the beer-stained floor.

Unperturbed, the other customers simply stepped over or around the unconscious form as they continued drinking. After all, it was the "Ironclad," and such petty altercations was barely the stuff of Tuesdays.

Looking down at the unconscious lout, Frances shook her head, "Everywhere you go, there's always an asshole."

The mysterious woman was already pouring them both another measure from the bottle that the barman had placed before her. Squinting at the label, she grinned happily, "I think it was his admiration for your ass in particular that got him into trouble in the first place."

She slid the shot down the bar and Frances almost unconsciously downed it, before pausing, "Don't take this the wrong way, but you mind telling me why you're buying me drinks?"

"'Cos you looked like you needed it."

"Hrmph... You said we'd met?"

The woman downed her own and refilled both glasses, "Yup."

"Mind telling me where?"

"Sure."

There was a pause as the woman raised her glass, looking expectantly at the one still sitting on the bar.

With a sigh, Frances picked it up and raised it to her lips, "I'm not going to sleep with you, no matter how drunk I get."

She'd timed it perfectly. The mysterious woman spluttered and coughed as she tried unsuccessfully to drink and laugh at the same time, and ended up inhaling half of her shot.

Frances thumped her on the back until she got her breathing back under control, "Sorry."

"No, you're fucking not."

"True."

The woman gave her a mock glare as she snatched up a napkin and made to wipe the drool from her lips, only to stop as Frances pointed, "I wouldn't use that."

With a disgusted snort she dropped the offending object back onto the bar and looked about before resorting to using her sleeve, "Fine. We met on the edge of the Tiberius system."

"You don't look like a hooker."

"I'm not a damned hooker!"

Frances shrugged, "No shame in it."

"That's what Cassidy says."

Frances slowly turned to look at the woman, her lips curling in a knowing smile as she nodded to herself, "You were on the destroyer."

"Yea."

"Miss Anderson already gave me grief for that little misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding? You came boring in on my ship like a damned attack dog. I almost blew you out of the sky."

Frances grunted and picked up the bottle to pour a couple more shots, "Nah."

"Nah?"

There was a laugh, "Nah. You had no more intention of shooting at me than I did of shooting at you."

"Then why the fuck risk it in the first place? You could have just signaled me."

Frances knocked back her shot and thumped the bar, "Oof, that stuff's not bad. Hmm? Oh, a couple of reasons. First, to start with, I didn't know if you were bounty hunters or slavers, and warrant or no, I wouldn't have let you take them if you were slavers. Second, my crew were a bit green and needed the training. But mostly," she chuckled, "mostly, my XO was getting on my tits, and you were a handy distraction."

The woman downed her shot, "So, why did you bear off if you thought we might be slavers?"

"It was pretty obvious from the way they were maneuvering they were actively trying to get into your hold before we got into range, and the way you moved your ship between us and them? You weren't trying to capture them; you were shielding them."

"You are an interesting woman, Frances Frobisher."

"As are you, Angelina Martinez."

The woman sat back, "You knew who I was?"

Frances raised her glass in a toast, "After that little escapade, I made it my business to know," she pursed her lips as she recited, "'know your enemy as you know yourself, and you need not fear the result of a hundred battles'. Personally, I always thought that was a complete crock, but it sounds cool, and your file made interesting reading."

The woman sipped her drink, "And what did you learn from my file?"

"I learned you prefer being called 'Angie,' and that I'm really glad we didn't end up shooting at each other. The results of that might have been... problematic."

Angie raised her glass, "For one of us."

"Yup," she grinned, as the glasses chinked together, "for one of us."

...

When Frances finally made it back aboard ship, she wasn't... quite... swaying unsteadily, though her salute to the marine on watch may have lacked a little of its usual crispness. She gave the man's impish grin a mock glare as she moved past him, "Carry on..."

For his part, the marine manfully refrained from chuckling as she bumped into the bulkhead, and he heard her petulantly muttering something that sounded suspiciously like an aggrieved, "Who put that there," followed by, "bloody woman has hollow legs..."

She straightened herself, determinedly tugging at the hem of her tunic before moving on down the passage, weaving only slightly as she went.

Once safely in the confines of her quarters, she eventually managed to tug off her boots before slumping back onto her bunk with a wry chuckle, as she recalled her conversation with that Syndicate bint in the bar. The woman may have had a slightly piratical air about her, but she was certainly interesting company. They'd gotten to toasting each other's ships, then their crews of course, then past shipmates; and before you knew it, that bottle, and the next, were both disgustingly empty, and they were working their way through a third.

Frances had picked up one of the empty bottles, gazing at it intently as she turned it idly in her hands. After a moment, she turned to her drinking companion, "I need a favour."

The woman was concentrating on very carefully pouring out another couple of shots, "Sure... Uh, what?"

Frances told her.

There was a moment of silence, "You're fucking mad."

...

Two days later, she was back on the bridge, once again all business. The main viewplate showed an image of their charges: seven mammoth bulk freighters floating together and standing off from the station. The last of the loading shuttles looked like a shoal of tiny minnows in comparison as they detached and moved away. They were a motley collection of ships, all older, with their patched hulls showing signs of long years of hard use.

She grinned; each of those huge elephantine vessels literally dwarfed her own command. But if they were whales, then hers was a shark.

Settling herself in the command chair, she looked about the cramped bridge, taking in the organised chaos of a warship making ready. The crew were busy at their consoles, but she could hear the chatter of conversation and the occasional spatter of joking laughter. Despite the lively bustling, all seemed well, and she smiled as she plugged herself into the ships systems, "I take it from all this jovial hilarity and insufferable high spirits, everyone enjoyed their shore leave?"

Damon gave her a cheerful nod from his station, and then the Captain's eyes flicked to the navigator as she noted the woman's quiet flush, "I take it, Selene, that your campaign to win the attentions of the inestimable Mr. Quadir met with success?"

Gail rotated her chair as she turned round from her own console with a huge grin, "I heard she and 'Bunny' and that scary marine woman took him to a couple of the local clubs for a 'few drinks,'" she laughed, "poor sap never stood a chance."

With a chuckle, Frances turned to the navigator, "Gadzooks, you resorted to ganging up on the poor lad? For shame, woman."

Selene gave her a broad smile and wagged her eyebrows, "I didn't hear him complaining."

"Is he still alive, or did you do him in?"

She shrugged, "More or less."

"Jolly good, be hard to find a replacement tactical officer on such short notice," she studied a report on her console before looking up again, "how about you, Gail? You get up to any adventures of your own?"

The furtive glance the young woman threw towards the crewmate who was oh so assiduously manning the neighbouring console was distinctly telling, "We.. I.. um, went for dinner...."

Selene looked across at her with a grin of her own, "Oh, come on, Gail. A little bird whispered to me that's not the whole story. Go on, tell the Captain where you had dinner."

The girl's blushing smile was positively delightful, "Um, on one of the luxury tourships circling the second moon..."

Frances chuckled, "Wow, I'm jealous. We must be paying you too much."

"Oh no, ma'am! I mean, I wish, but, uh... no. We bought a raffle ticket for a laugh, and we won! I couldn't believe it; I never win anything. I mean, it was only for a dinner and a show on the cruiser, but..."

"Was it nice?"

"It was... wonderful," she sighed dreamily, "oh, the foood."

"So, that's why I saw you sneaking off the ship in your dress uniform. I thought you were going to a wedding or something. Well, I hope your beau appreciated your efforts and treated you as a gentleman should."

Her bright smile was filled with such a delightful mix of excitement and mischievous joy that Frances felt herself grinning when the girl replied, "He bought Champaigne. Like a real bottle. It must have cost a month's wages."

"Sounds like a keeper. I'm glad you had a good time," she sighed, "right. Sadly, it's time to get back to work, I guess."

She turned, "Damon, what's the status of the convoy?"

The man didn't need to check his board, having anticipated the enquiry, "We had a last-minute straggler, but all ships and the, uh, local escorts, have finally assembled."

His tone was not lost on her, and she raised a curious brow, "I take it there is something amiss with the escorts the convoy master has chartered to protect them?"

He snorted, "Well, ma'am, given they consist of a half-dozen pre-war gunboats belonging to a local merc company, I'd have to say I'm less than impressed."

She eyed him, "No heavy vessels at all?"

Shaking his head, the man gave her a resigned chuckle, "I'm afraid not, ma'am. Not so much as a corvette."

Frances considered; in times of war, gunboats had always been considered cheap, and above all, expendable vessels. They were nippy enough and carried a reasonable punch for their size, but in a firefight, the life expectancy of those flying coffins could be measured in minutes, "Well, shit. I can see why they were screaming for Navy assistance," she shook her head incredulously, "these clowns have a death-wish or something?"

He shrugged, "They're pilgrims, looking to make a better life by building a new settlement on an unclaimed world out on the frontier. They don't have much script, and by the looks of things they used most of what they did have to put this little shindig together."

At her station, Selene shook her head as she muttered to herself, "These people are all going to die."

With a grimace, Frances snorted, "Maybe so, but not on our watch."

She looked about one last time and then back at the XP, "Departure stations."

He nodded, "Departure stations. Aye."

...

Felina couldn't help but feel a certain amount of nervousness, given where she was, "Actually scratch that, I'm bloody terrified."

The invitation to dinner hadn't really surprised her, the Captain seemed to favour dining with either her officers or her crew on a regular basis, and the psychologist in her could easily see the many reasons why that might be. So, she had been happy to accept the invitation. She suppressed a small chuckle, "Not that refusing an invitation from the Captain was ever really an option."

But when she found it was for her, alone? That was when the nerves had started to set in.

Now she sat opposite the woman in the wardroom, furtively eyeing her across a table festooned with silverware and an actual porcelain dinner set of all things. There were crystal glasses, and even the food was surprisingly good.

Licking her lips nervously, she gestured across the table, "I, uh, didn't know you had all this."

Frances rose, moving across the cabin to refresh the woman's glass before nodding, "Every navy vessel has a proper ship's dinner set and silverware, would you believe," she grinned, "I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it's for official functions or should some irritating flag officer come a-calling. This is the first time I've used it."

"The food's nice."

"Thank you," she pointed towards a wall panel, "There's a small galley just through there. It's more like an oversized cupboard to be honest, and I was never much of a cook in the first place, but I can just about follow a recipe," she grinned, "that is, if the writing is big enough and they use small words."

Felina blinked in surprise, "You made this? It's really good."

"Thanks," she shrugged, "one of the advantages of having just left port, especially this port, is the supply of fresh protein."

"And the wine?"

With another smile, Frances looked at the bottle, "I learned you're from Massanas, and I saw this bottle on a shelf on the station. I thought you'd like it."

Blushing, Felina took a gulp before nervously setting down her glass, "Um, look... Uh, Captain. This is... I mean, this is nice," she smiled, "I mean really nice! But, I'm..." she swallowed, "I'm spoken for..."

Frances stared at her for a moment, and Felina could feel her blush intensifying.

What she didn't expect was for the Captain's face to crack up as she burst out laughing. Within moments the woman was chortling so hard she had to slurp down a mouthful of her own wine before she could speak again, "You... You think that's what t-this is? Oh, oh dear Gods... I am so sorry."

"What?"

Still breathing hard, Frances had to wipe her mouth with a napkin, "Oh my..."

She shook her head, "I'm sorry, that was my fault. No, much as seducing you sounds like absolutely tremendous fun, but that's not why you're here."

"It's... not?" She groaned, and her face fell into her palms, "I am such an idiot."

Still chuckling, Frances rapped her knuckles on the nearby bulkhead, "I'm afraid I'm already married," she cast her eyes around the room, "and to a right demanding bitch, I can tell you."

Felina shook her head, "I-I..."

Holding up her hand, Frances gave the flabbergasted woman a bright smile, "It's okay, this is really my fault, but, seriously, I wanted to talk to you in private, and" she gestured about the table, "I thought this would be nice, and maybe make it less awkward."

That comment provoked another chuckle, "More fool me, I guess."

"I'm sorry..."

The Captain shook her head, "It's okay, really. But there were a couple of things I needed to say to you."

Sipping her wine, Felina eyed the woman, "What is it?"

"Well, firstly, I wanted to apologise again, for dragging you into this mess.

"That's okay-"

Frances held up a hand again, "No, it's not. You're a civilian, and I had no right to put you in that kind of danger. The fact that I had no alternative at the time might explain my actions, but it doesn't really excuse it. So, there's that."

She toyed with her glass as she continued, "Then, I wanted to thank you. You helped, a lot. Your work on the Elmira with those women, that must have been hard, but all I heard were good things. And not just from Helen, but Selene, and also from a couple of the women you helped, and that's no small thing."

Feline felt her blush returning full force, and it was a moment before she could mumble, "I just did what I could..."

"Well, even if that's the case, you did a lot, and I'm grateful."

Felina heard herself mumbling, "Thank you."

Frances grinned, "Lastly, and don't take this the wrong way, but why are you still on my ship?"

"What?"

"I mean, you could have gotten off on Carcosa, in fact you still can. We're close enough I can have you shuttled across. The Navy would see you provided safe transport back to Zesta."

For a moment, Frances thought the younger woman wouldn't answer, but felt herself smiling when Felina met her eyes, "I don't want to go."

"Why? Is this to do with your relationship with Helen?"

"No! Yes, well, maybe..."

Frances chuckled, "Well, that covers most bases. Could you be a little more vague?"

That, at least, elicited a chuckle, "I'm sorry, I mean, yes, obviously Helen's part of it. She was there when I was lonely, scared, and I really needed someone-"

"She didn't take advantage, I hope."

This time it was Felina who laughed outright, "Good grief, no! If anyone did that, it was me. I literally threw myself at her and near enough dragged the poor girl kicking and screaming to my bunk."

She sobered, "But I'm not a schoolgirl, and neither is she. Yes, I'd like to take it further, and I think Helen does too, but in truth we barely know each other, and we both have careers to consider," she grinned, "especially her, if she wants to take your job, and trust me, she wants that very much."

"Good."

"But the truth is, I learned more on this ship, and not just about my work, but about myself, in the last two weeks than I think I ever did before that, and... I don't want to give that up."

Frances nodded, "And?"

"Well, I was hoping you'd consider letting me stay on board. As, I don't know, a civilian consultant, a crew counsellor, whatever. I could continue my studies online," she gave the Captain an almost pleading look, "you said I could be useful. I'm still training, and Doc Ostrow said he could find a place for me..."

"I know what the doctor said."

"You do?"

Shaking her head with a sigh, Frances gave the woman a wry smile, "I'd be a piss poor Captain if I didn't. But that's not the point," she pursed her lips, "I think we are sailing into danger, Felina; real danger this time."

The younger woman frowned, "How so?"

The Captain took a moment to compose her thoughts, "It's a hunch, well, maybe a bit more than that..." she pursed her lips, "look, these slavers? The increasing number of attacks that are happening indicates it's part of a pretty big operation. And the way they keep avoiding our patrols? To me that almost screams that they are getting inside information somehow."

Felina frowned, "But you caught them?"

"Yea, I caught these guys, but I didn't tell anyone what I was up to. I bet if I had, the bastards wouldn't have been there."

Looking at the Captain's expression, Felina's eyes narrowed, "That's not your hunch though, is it?"

"No. I wish it was, but no," she sighed again, "as I said, I think one of the reasons for our success is that I'm a little less forthcoming on my ship's movements than I officially should be. We've bagged five of their vessels now, and frankly, I think they've had enough of us, and they've decided to do something about it.

"What do you think they're going to do?"

Picking up her glass, Frances sipped the wine as she settled back in her chair, "The problem is a tactical one. They need to bring ships to bear in sufficient force to bag us. But they don't know where we are half the time, and we can always jump away if we spot their attack force. They need a way to find us, and to pin us in place so we don't just run."

Felina blinked, "The convoy?"

Frances nodded, "The convoy."

"But how could they be sure you'd be with the convoy? I mean, Helen said we shouldn't even be here"

"Obviously by ambushing and taking out the ship originally marked as escort, so we'd be tagged to take its place, that's how."

"Oh. Oh shit."

The Captain chuckled, "Yea. Oh shit."

For a moment, Felina sat in silence as she digested what she had been told. The Captain could be wrong, of course. But Felina knew, in her heart, she probably wasn't. Sooner or later, this ship would fall under attack, and when that happened, it wouldn't be pretty.

She could get off. She could just leave, go to the station, and from there back to Zesta, where she would be safe. She wasn't really navy after all; she had no part to play in all this.

That made her think of Helen, and not just her, but of all the others she had come to know on the ship, people she had begun to start thinking of as friends. She chuckled to herself. Funny; in the end it really wasn't all that hard a decision after all...

She looked back at the Captain, "I'm staying."

Frances met her eyes, her expression entirely unreadable, for the longest moment, before finally nodding and raising her glass, "Welcome aboard."

...

"Why is convoy duty so dangerous?"

Helen eyed the weapon the woman was holding, and shook her head with a distinctly disgruntled sigh, "Felina, pay attention. If you make a mistake reassembling a blaster, or miss a part," she opened her hand, revealing the ubiquitous charging coil she had been hiding, "then the damned thing might blow up in your hand, and given all the nice things I want you to do to me with those hands, that would be bad."

The complaining whine that followed sounded delightfully petulant, "That's cheating! You hid it."

"Oh, I'm being unfair, am I? Maybe you'd prefer weapons training with Leftenant Satlykova?"

Felina snorted, "Oh, Hell no. That woman's terrifying. But I mean, I've played strip poker before, but this is ridiculous."

Given the woman was wearing nothing more than her panties and precisely one sock, Helen might have been inclined to agree. Instead, she pointed, "You owe me a sock."

There was a mumble of annoyance and Helen had to dodge, as the sock in question was thrown at her head, "Happy?"

Helen eyed the last scrap of clothing the woman was wearing with a distinctly mischievous smile, "Oh, I think I might be, and quite soon, the way you're going. Hey, why did you ask that, about the convoy, I mean?"

"Just something the Captain said."

Picking up the blaster, Helen began to strip it down, expertly laying the parts out on the bunk between them, "You're lucky you know. I'm just stealing your clothes; my instructors were a lot less... forgiving."

"I bet."

Pointing at the parts, Helen gestured for Felina to start again, watching her for a moment before she began to talk, "I suppose it's the way hyperspace travel works."

"Huh?"

"Imagine you're holding a balloon underwater. The bigger the balloon, the more energy you need to use to hold it under. Hyperdrive is a little bit like that. The Zeus isn't that big, but those transports out there are huge. We can jump further, and charge our coils faster than any freighter, but in convoy we have to keep pace with them. So, to get where they're going, they'll make a bunch of jumps where we would only have to make a couple. And to navigate those jumps, they go from star to star. That way, if anyone gets lost, they know where to head for to meet up again."

"Now, if a pirate knows where you're coming from, and where you're going to? Well, then they can make a pretty good guess at which systems you'll be jumping into on the way, and it takes these big ships quite a while before they can make ready to jump out once they arrive. That creates a window of vulnerability."

Felina held out the assembled weapon with a triumphant grin, only to swear as Helen held up yet another component, "Oops."

"Oh, come on!"

The disgruntled woman reached for the waistband of her underwear, only to pause as Helen smiled and moved closer, putting the gun aside as she whispered, "Let me."

Felina giggled, stretching out as inquisitive fingers began to tickle their way up her legs. She gave a whimpering moan as they reached higher, "Who said training was no fun...."

...

They were three jumps out from the Bannerman Outpost when the enemy came for them.

The star was a blue supergiant, and its remarkable luminance lit the firmament as it burned its way towards its inevitable cataclysmic end. It was a beautiful sight, immense beyond description, and spectacular beyond words.

Frances stared at the thing, shaking her head in wonder, "Behold a marvel in the darkness," she sighed, "now all I need is a Dragonboat for my funeral, and I know where to come for a pyre."

Looking up from his console, Damon chuckled, "As long as you don't plan on using Zeus, I'd be okay with that."

"Spoilsport."

With a last look at the distant star, she turned to the man, "Convoy status?"

He checked the readouts, "All ships have successfully emerged from hyperspace more or less where they should be. As expected, there was some scattering, but the ships are gathering again and should be back in formation in less than an hour. There's normal comm chatter across the board," he grinned, "no drive failures or other emergencies reported."

"Excellent, how long until all vessels are jump capable again?"

Selene lifted her head, "I'd estimate one hundred and forty minutes until their hyperdrives have cooled and they have emergency jump capability, perhaps twice that until their capacitors are fully charged, ma'am."

There was a shout, "Contact! Looks like multiple vessels, approaching on an intercept course."

Frances rotated the command chair to face the speaker, "Where away?"

"They're coming in from the edge of the system, still at long range, and still moving slowly, but accelerating steadily. Looks like they were lying doggo and lit up their drives as soon as they saw us. Estimate interception with convoy in ninety minutes."

"Gail, what can you tell me?"

Pressing her eyes to the scope, the scantech made adjustments to her instruments, "Looks like six vessels in formation, three destroyers in the van and three cruisers following astern of them," she looked down at her board, "from their power readings, they have shields raised, and I'm beginning to pick up targeting emissions from their sensors."

Selene spoke up, "And there go our escorts."

Looking down at her own console, Frances could see the telltale signatures of the six gunboats peeling away from the convoy and moving off at high speed.

Damon grunted, "Well, shit."

The Captain tapped a few buttons on her board as she shook her head, "Hard to blame them, I suppose. I doubt they'd last more than five minutes against that lot."

He snorted, "Somehow, that doesn't make me feel better."

"Ach, that's just you being all depressingly realistic. Keep that up, and you'll worry yourself into an early grave, man."

With a wry chuckle he nodded to the oncoming formation, "Somehow, I'm starting to think that's the least of my problems," he shrugged, "shall I sound 'Battle Stations,' ma'am?"

She nodded, "If you would."

Pausing to wink at the young rating manning a secondary console, he reached across the controls of his own station and pushed a button.

Instantly, klaxons and sirens sounded throughout the ship.

"GENERAL QUARTERS! GENERAL QUARTERS! ALL HANDS, MAN BATTLE STATIONS!"

The bridge, much like the rest of the ship, erupted into bedlam, but it was an organised chaos, and what seemed like mere frenzied activity was nothing of the kind as the crew got suited up, the reactor went to full power, and emergency systems came online.

Looking back at the Captain, he had to grin. The woman was sitting there, calm as you like, with her comlink set to time the response times of the gun-crews.

Watching the tell-tale readiness lights blinking to green, she nodded, "Not bad."

Examining the readings on his board, Damon made a sound, "These look like the same jackals who bounced Apollo."

"Good."

He turned, "Good?"

The Captain shrugged, "Killing a bunch of randoms would be a bit anticlimactic, wouldn't it?"

"If you say so, ma'am."

At her station, Gail spotted an anomalous reading and tapped in a few adjustments before looking up, her expression confused, "That's weird... Uh, Captain. That freighter, the 'Matryoshka' is leaving formation and opening her cargo bay doors."

The XO checked his readings, "Confirmed," he turned, "think she's going to jettison her cargo in the hopes the raiders leave her be?"

Frances shrugged, "I've seen it happen before. Anything new on the approaching vessels?"

This time it was the rating at tactical who responded, "Hostiles still on approach vector. The warbook identifies the larger vessels as 'Dominus' class attack cruisers. The smaller contacts are a trio of 'Caliban' class escort destroyers. And it looks like... yes," he looked up, "one of the cruisers is hanging back. Not far, but definitely not keeping up with the rest."

Eyeing the readings, Damon made a satisfied sound, "I bet that's the one Apollo chewed on. I'd lay odds she's not fully repaired yet."

The Captain's eyes took on a certain telltale gleam, and her lips curled in a distinctly predatory smile, "Interesting."

She looked to the XO, "Launch the stealth drones, and open me a channel to the lead ship."

There was a moments delay before there came a reply from tactical, "Drones away," there was an appreciative whistle, "woah those things are quick. Damned hard to spot too."

"All the better."

Damon gestured, "Channel open, ma'am."

She nodded and drew a breath, "This is the warship, Zeus..." pausing, she shook her head in disgust, "fuck it. I was trying to think of something cool to say, but I can't be arsed, and you're not worth it anyway. So, I'll make it simple. Back off, or I'll blow you out of the sky. Zeus out."

Gail stared, Selene actually giggled, and Damon just drew a resigned breath, "I think you missed your calling as a diplomat, ma'am."

"Meh."

Flicking a switch, she looked down at the face that appeared on the screen, "Lt. Hopper, report, please."

The dropship pilot was clearly concentrating on her task and so didn't lift her eyes to the screen, "Both drones away, Cap. They're each carrying a max load of four light missiles and one torpedo. Controls responding well, and the drone's robot brain makes flying easy as pie," she grinned, "I could have a lot of fun with these things."

Eyeing the pilot, the Captain gave her a distinctly wicked grin, "Normally, I'd be saying something tedious, like 'Don't get carried away' or whatever, but I think in this instance it's more a case of, 'Do your worst.' Try and work the drones in behind the two nearest destroyers. When the ball starts rolling, I'd very much like it if you blew their engines straight to Hell. Do that for me, and all is forgiven."

"Will do, ma'am... Um, ma'am?"

"Yes, Leftenant?"

The woman licked her lips in an uncharacteristically troubled gesture, "You know I won't let you down."

Apparently, whatever words she and the marine Leftenant had earlier exchanged had left an impression. Frances gave her a broad smile, "Oh, Bunny. I might sometimes think you a madwoman, and a borderline insubordinate to boot, but you're MY madwoman, and the idea that you would let the ship down has never once crossed my mind. Now, if you'd be so kind, I'd be obliged if you would do me a huge favour, by getting up close and personal with these clowns and ruining their fucking day for me."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Jolly good."

The communications rating called out, "Signal from one of the hostiles, ma'am."

"Can you identify which one?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent," she permitted herself an evil grin and looked across the bridge, "XO?"

He snorted, "Targeting torpedoes on that vessel and setting overloads to maximum."

"Right, let's hear what these idiots have to say. Put it up on the main viewplate, if you please."

The man who appeared on the screen favoured a distinctly rakish appearance. Middle aged, almost distinguished looking, with a dark complexion, darker eyes, and a friendly enough smile. Though the cold emptiness of his eyes belied any semblance of genuine affability.

Frances sniffed, "Nice teeth."

The man raised his chin in a gesture that combined an air of both arrogance and supreme confidence.

"I am Augustus Alcantra, First Castellan of the Rimward Corsairs."

She shrugged, "Cool name, what do you want?"

His smile broadened, and Frances almost rolled her eyes as he literally stroked his moustache, "I am come for you, woman."

"I'm flattered, but you're not my type," she looked back at him, "is that it?"

He frowned, but his shark-like smile didn't waver, "I admire the display of courage, Captain, truly. But we've been paid to end you, and to destroy your ship. Still, I offer terms."

"Terms? That's nice. What terms?"

"Indeed. Your crew need not perish. We have no quarrel with them, and there is no contract for their termination. I offer you their lives."

Frances nodded, "Well, I'm sure they'll be simply delighted to hear that. Doesn't help me much, though."

"No, your life is sadly forfeit. But if you surrender yourself and scuttle your vessel, I promise to make it quick, and to let your crew abandon ship in safety."

"And the convoy?"

He shrugged, "I'm being paid for you. I have no interest in them today."

At her side, she could feel her XO bristling, and from the look of the man he was near enough fit to burst, "I take it you have something to say, Damon?"

"Yes, ma'am. I say you tell this dandified jackanapes to go fuck himself."

Selene looked round, "I'd tell him he can kiss my ass, but even I have some standards."

That elicited a chorus of laughter from the bridge crew, along with a few ribald denials, and Frances felt herself smiling.

She turned back to the XO, "I'll take your suggestion on board. Now, reinforce the forward shield with reserve power, and bring us about."

He nodded, "Course, ma'am?"

"Straight at him."

On the viewplate, the Castellan frowned, his brow furrowing, "What are your intentions, Captain?"

Her reply was both brutal, and cold, "I intend to kill you. When I get you in range, I'm going to send you, and as many of your murderous friends as I can, straight to Hell. That's what I intend."

He scoffed, "You think six on one is a fair fight?"

"I'm game if you're game," she shrugged, "besides, it's not six on one. I can already see that one of you doesn't have the belly for it."

The man hissed, "Even five on one; we can still take you easily enough."

She laughed, "Maybe. If it really was five on one."

The cargo door of the freighter 'Matryoshka' had opened like the entrance to a vast cavern, but instead of vomiting forth a host of bulky cargo containers, it was the long, grey silhouette of a warship that appeared.

It hung there for a moment, drifting clear of the transport. Then, with a flare of thrusters, she swung about, before moving up to take position alongside Zeus.

Damon stared, "That's Apollo..." he shook his head in bewilderment, "how?"

Frances shrugged, "Her shields and weapons are fine. She just needed a lift, is all, and Captain Thorsson seemed to feel she and her crew owed these guys some payback," she sniffed, "besides, it would have been unfair to hog these assholes all to ourselves."

On the screen, the sardonic smile on the face of the Corsair finally vanished, "That's bold talk from a woman flying a pre-war bucket of bolts."

Eyes glittering, she bared her teeth in a savage snarl, "We'll see if you still feel that way when we're finished with you. Now, if you're all done talking, let's have at it!"