Olympus Beckons Pt. 13

Olympus Beckons - Chapter 13: "Anywhere it Fucking Wants."

The gunships looked like a school of remora as they followed the old warcruiser through the silent blackness of space, and for her part, Zeus played the role of shark quite well as she glided along, with her armoured bulk showing the scars and scrapes of a long and violent past. She wasn't a pretty ship, never had been, but she was tough. And like some battered bare-knuckle pugilist of old, there was something about her, some dogged grim pride that proclaimed to one and all, that anyone thinking themselves hard enough was welcome to step up and take their best shot.

Off her port beam sailed Apollo, her younger sister, running lights flashing as she came alongside, proudly displaying her own scars and trophies. Lighter and swifter perhaps, she could have overtaken, if such was her want, but instead she held station, and in doing so paid silent tribute, as her lights flashed in salute to the old warhorse.

Behind them, basking in the light of the binary system's two golden suns, lay the Bannerman Outpost, an old pre-war station hanging in orbit over the emerald loveliness of a farming world. The station had once been a military installation, and while much of it had been repurposed towards more agricultural and weather monitoring needs, it still retained armour and missile tubes enough to deter any but the most determined raider.

Having at last deposited their charges, safe and sound at their destination, and partaken of what limited diversions a farming world could offer their crews during an all too short shore leave, the two warships had gathered their children, paid their dues and fines, bailed the worst from cells, escorted or carried them back aboard, and headed spaceward again.

One gunship had been docked to the steel hide of Zeus, and now it detached, allowing the gentle breath of maneuvering thrusters to push it away. It drifted for a moment, still and quiet, before righting itself. Its engines ignited, and it swiftly curved away from the ship, propelled by a pillar of fire.

Frances braced herself against the thrust. Most ships had inertial compensators and artificial gravity enough to mute and dampen all but the most violent of maneuvers, but a gunship was so small, and its oversized engines so powerful, that the things could turn on a six-credit piece and take off like a damned rocket. It was a familiar sensation, and she felt herself grinning as she realised just how much she had missed it.

Standing beside her, the skipper of the Mako watched the Teraxan Captain from the corner of her eyes, her own smile maybe mimicking that of the navy woman, "Brings back memories, eh?"

Nodding, Frances turned to her, "That it does. Thanks again for doing this."

Kora's smile turned to a sly grin, "Ohh, don't go thanking me, girl. I aint doing this out of the generosity of my heart. You fucking owe me, bigtime. And I always collect."

Expecting argument, the gunship skipper had to hide her surprise when the woman only sighed, "Yea, that's fair. A deal's a deal," she scratched her chin, and looked to her host, "what now?"

Hooking her thumb back along the passageway, Kora tilted her head, "You can store your gear in my cabin, you'll be bunking with me," she snorted, "that big gorilla you brought with you can sort himself out."

Frances blinked, "With you? That's uh... generous."

There was a laugh, "Oh, get over yourself. You'll be safe enough, I'll be keeping my hands to myself, I promise. But you're a Captain. Wouldn't be right you mucking out with the riffraff now would it."

"I've done it before, and on rougher tubs than this."

Kora eyed her for a moment and then shook her head with a snort of laughter, "Oh, you're gonna be a hoot. Tell me, Navy, you play cards?"

The woman's expression smoothed into something entirely guileless almost instantly, "Cards? Uh... you mean like gambling? Maybe a bit, why?"

The gunship skipper's laughter could be heard in the next compartment, "Oh yea, this is gonna be fun."

...

Zek looked up as Jeff lumbered past him into the cramped crew compartment. The man was carrying a heavy equipment crate like it was filled with feathers, and not a full load of armour and weapons, and he looked for all the world like a great big chunk of heavy machinery that had just decided one day to get up and go for a meander.

The crewman working next to Zek watched the broad back of the grizzled marine, and whistled silently, "You see the size of that motherfucker? Where in Hell's he gonna sleep?"

Zek sniffed, "Same place as a Kodiax Direbear."

"Huh?"

"Anywhere it fucking likes."

...

Jeff peered about the compartment, watching the flurry of activity. He figured about half the crew of this dipship little pigboat were present, carrying out all the last-minute prep that a quick launch always entailed. He grunted to himself, listening to the familiar litany of curses and complaints, as this spacer or that realised they'd brought too much shit back from shoreleave and had nowhere to put it, or that they'd had forgotten that one little nicknack they'd meant to buy. It was always the same.

Given the number of times he'd been transferred with cause, and the number of gaffs he'd been turfed from, he tended to travel light. Pretty much everything he owned was in the battered kit bag slung over his shoulder, and all his work gear and necessities was in the armoured crate he was carrying.

A voice called out, "Hey, new-guy! Yea, you, Gigantor, over here."

The speaker was a tall woman, big boned and rangy. She had something of a craggy face, with a hooked nose and beady, deep-set eyes that made her look like a fucking spacewitch. Casting his eye over her generous bust he had to admit, she was certainly stacked, but handsome she was not.

She gave him a toothy grin, "Seen enough?"

His reply was a grunt and a noncommittal shrug.

Clearly unfazed, she cast her own eye over him, and chuckled, "Well, yer a big bugger aint ya, Sweetcheeks?"

The man gave her a lopsided grin, "Aint had no complaints, yet."

"Ha! Cheeky bastard. Okies, you're hotbunking with me. I'm the only one anywhere near your size, and my bunk's big enough, so at least yer feet won't end up sticking out of the rack. No wanking or scratching yer arse in my bunk, and if you leave a mess, you better fucking clean up after yourself. You can stow your shit underneath and then take your suit down to the bay to be checked out by the armoursmith."

He nodded, "Okies, uh, what do I call ye?"

She gave a snort, "Long as it aint, "Cunt", you can call me anything you like, Sweetcheeks," she made an offhand gesture around the compartment, "but most of these assholes call me, "Granma" on account of me being oldest, see?"

"Yea, but what's yer name?"

Peering at him, her eyes narrowed, "Delores, why?"

Shifting the crate that probably weighed more than some crewmen under one arm, he shoved out a mattock-sized hand, "I'm Jeff, pleased ta meet you, Delores."

...

Kora eyed the Captain as the woman peered about the small command deck with the obvious interest of a professional spacer, and she didn't miss how she ran a hand gently, almost longingly, across the back of the command chair.

Clearing her throat brought the woman's attention back to her, "Okay, so I'm guessing your man back there..."

"Jeff."

"Yea, Jeff. Anyway, I'm guessing he has technical expertise we can use, so I figure he can serve as assistant armourer and maybe as second mechanic, and, if push comes to shove, he'll help out in any boarding actions, yea?"

Frances raised her eyes, giving her a thin smile, "As long as he gets a cut, sure."

"A cut? Seriously? You guys are working your passage, and we're going waaay the Hell and gone out of our path to get you where you wanna go. Aint that enough?"

The Navy woman didn't so much as bat an eyelid, "Working passage is one thing, risking his neck fighting for you is another. Now knowing Jeff like I do, I'm guessing he'd probably be quite happy to shoot anyone you put in front of him, but as far as I'm concerned, that goes above and beyond, and I want to see him treated right."

Kora pursed her lips with a frown, but eventually she nodded, "Fair enough. If it comes to it, I'll see he gets a square deal, okay?"

"Okay."

The gunship skipper grinned, "But what about you? What can you do for me?"

Frances blinked, "Pardon?"

The piratical creature stepped back, giving the woman an unabashed and appreciative once over, "Well, you're working your passage too, so unless you wanna do it by selling your ass to the crew, you might want to think of some other way you can be useful. Because, like I said, there aint no free rides on my boat. So, tell me, Princess, what can you do?"

Scratching her hair, Frances considered, "Well, I'm a warship Captain, which means you pretty much have to be able to do most things relating to such. I'm a fair pilot, but nothing special. I can do Nav calculations in a pinch, and I know my way around damage control as well as suits, small arms and shuttles, though Jeff out there is vastly more experienced at that kind of thing than me. But if you're asking what I'm good at? Well, I spent most of my time as a junior officer in gunnery and tactical."

Kora tilted her head thoughtfully, "You don't say?"

Moving across the small command deck she paused at a chair and tapped the woman manning it on the shoulder, "Hey, Tomboy, get your ass back into the copilot's seat and make room for the lady."

A young woman looked up, her face split by an impish smile of delight, "Oh, thank fuck."

Kora rolled her eyes and gestured, "Tomboy here is our copilot, but she's also number two on guns, she just likes piloting better, a lot better. Hey, Tomboy, set up your console to run "Cestus Strike" and "Two Pump Chump" before you go, and we'll see what the Princess can do."

Frances lifted her eyes from the console, "Exercises?"

"Yup, if you're good enough you'll be my gunnery officer, if not," she grinned, "well, then you might end up selling your ass after all."

Frances sighed, "Fuck you."

"Pardon?"

The Teraxan Captain shook her head with a grin, "I said, 'fuck you', Skipper."

Kora nodded, "Better."

As Frances plugged herself into the consol, the young woman who'd just been banished from the position sidled over. She was a diminutive thing, slim and slightly built. In truth she looked far too young to be crewing a gunship with a rabble of bloodthirsty raiders, and her bright eyes and broad smile lent her an almost childlike quality that made Frances almost want to pat her on the head, "I'm Tomboy."

"So I heard."

The girl nodded, "Want a rundown on the console before you start?"

The controls looked fairly standard, but you never knew what modifications these lunatics might have installed. Besides, refusing the help would have been a dumb play, so she nodded, "Sure."

The girl's smile broadened, "Cool," and she began pointing out various instrument clusters, "uh, these are the controls for queuing up the targeting computers, and those handle the loads for the missile stacks..."

Frances nodded, "You have different loadouts?"

"Well, mostly we use standard high-explosive birds, short range and double yield, but we have a few 'longshots' on hand, just not many," she shrugged, "they're kinda hard to get a hold of."

"Hmm, EMP warheads on the longshots?"

The girl nodded enthusiastically, "Yup, not everyone's familiar with those, I guess you know your stuff after all."

Frances shrugged and gave her an answering smile, "I'm a bit rusty, but it's like riding a jetbike, or so I hear."

"You wanna use the VR headset, or rely on the viewplates?"

Experimentally flicking a few switches, Frances made a face, "Ehh, think I'll stick with the viewplates, for now at least, until I figure out which way is up."

Tomboy grinned, "It'll come back to you. You ready?"

Kora grunted and slammed her finger down on a button, "She better be."

Swearing, Frances began frantically hitting controls and bringing up systems from standby mode as her screen flashed angrily with the legend, "Program Initiated."

Spinning, Tomboy glared furiously, "That's just mean!"

Kora sniffed, "Shut it, half-pint," she looked down at the smaller woman and then gestured across her shoulder, "in fact, go sync the co-pilots chair to gunnery and run the damned exercise with her. No point wasting the opportunity."

The girl's eyes went wide, "What?"

"Best hurry, small fry. The exercise has already started. Be a shame if she fucks up cos you aint doing your part."

"Bitch."

Watching the younger woman as she literally threw herself into her chair, fingers flying across the controls, Kora couldn't help but grin, "Tic-toc, kiddo."

She chuckled at the angry one fingered salute that came back her way.

Turning to her pilot she grunted, "Okay, while the kids are playing, the rest of us have work to do. Set course for Shalako, sync navcomp and jump drives with the rest of the gang and make ready to get this shitshow on the road."

Her reply was a thumbs up and a nod, "Will do, Boss."

...

Zek leaned on the back of the command chair peering over the skipper's shoulder as he eyed the results of the exercise. The computer had methodically catalogued the woman's performance before displayed its assessment on the viewplate that he and Kora were studying. The man grunted, "Well, she's a vicious fucker, I'll give her that."

Studying the screen, Kora snorted as her eyes expertly ran down the list of havoc and destruction the navy woman had inflicted, "Not a bad shot, isn't she?"

Watching the replay, Zek had to agree, "No shit."

Kora nodded and her lips parted in a thoughtful smile, "Mind you, she's a little predictable, but I'm guessing that's because I annoyed her with this bullshit, that and just maybe she's gotten a bit too comfortable."

"Huh?"

Pointing at the display, the Skipper ran the recording back, "Look, here. She had the opportunity to withdraw clean, but she went for the kill instead."

Zek frowned, "Yea, but she got the fucker."

"She did, but she took damage and used a lot of munitions doing it. That's Navy thinking if ever I saw it. They can repair and resupply every time they get to a space station, but we don't have that luxury. We have to pay our way. Sometimes you have to remember that annoying little detail, and measure what you might gain against what you might lose when making the call on when to fight and when to cut bait and run."

Zek looked at the screen, his brow furrowed in thought, "You think she's reckless?"

"Nah, I'd not go that far," she grinned, "the woman was just pissed and wanted to kill everyone. Fuck knows, I've felt the same myself from time to time. But still, it's maybe worth keeping an eye on."

She flicked off the display, "Either way, it seems the Princess has skills after all. She'll make a damned handy gunner, we'll just have to wait and see about using her at tactical."

Grinning, the man snorted, "You know, if you keep calling her that, she's going to fucking shoot you."

With an evil chuckle Kora slapped him on the back, "Yea, I should probably cut it out, but it's just way too much fun watching her grit her teeth every time I do it."

"It's your ass, Boss."

Unfazed, the woman shrugged happily, "Well, if she kills me then you can say, "I told you so," right after you blow her head off."

He looked askance, "What? And waste a perfectly good gunner? No way."

"You're a dick, I dunno why I keep you around."

Wagging his eyebrows the man gave her a salacious wink, "I do."

...

Blake leaned back, relaxing into the familiar padded comfort of his command chair, his fingers idly tapping at the controls on the armrest. His eyes played over the viewplate, but in truth he was only half paying attention as the first of the assault shuttles began to detach from the science station.

Manipulating a control, he brought the construct into closer focus. It had been thoroughly raped. Jagged torn holes marked where his missiles had taken out their defensive installations while melted scars showed how his guns had penetrated the outer hull, tearing it open to reach the soft meat within, probing for the life support mechanisms that had kept the place alive.

It had been a tricky engagement. The two destroyers defending the place were modern and well equipped, but they were careless. They never expected to come under attack, why would they? After all, nobody in their right mind challenged the Syndicate. Not these days. Everyone ran scared of their rep, and usually with damned good reason. But that kind of rep had a way of creating its own problems. Sure, some of them did merc work and enforcement jobs, while others contented themselves by bullying local outfits and running protection scams. But it had been years since most of them had been involved in anything like a stand-up fight, and it showed.

The destroyers should have been running quiet, they should have been warier, moving like the sharks they were supposed to be, but they weren't. Instead, they'd been swanning about on their predictable-as-fuck patrol routes, broadcasting their cute little "tactical updates" to one another for all the Galaxy to hear, and for him to home in on.

Fucking amateurs.

He'd bounced them both. The first hadn't even gotten a shot off before they realised they were dead, and the second hadn't done much better. And now there were just another two clouds of debris and particulate matter floating about in the dark.

The station had managed to get its guns online, but from the response times they were crewed by militia, and instead of opening up with everything they had, the Administrator had wanted to 'negotiate'.

Well, that wasn't a mistake he'd ever be repeating.

Around him, the usual sounds, the comm chatter, updates from tactical, status reports from gunnery, engineering, and all the other expected communications flowed about the bridge in a mundane tide as his crew carried out their grisly business. There was no fuss as they targeted the various lifeboats and escape pods trying to flee the destruction, and only a quick flash, or an all-too-brief electronic scream marked their deaths as they were burned from the continuum.

But then, his crew were used to slaughter, they neither reveled in it nor avoided it, and there were no cheers as they murdered without qualm.

After all, it was simply business, and business was good.

He looked up as his XO approached, grey, colourless eyes evaluating the officer with the cool detachment that was his norm, "Yes, Commander?"

The man drew himself up. He was a tall, cadaverous creature, with a distinctly disquieting mien, but like Blake he was a combat veteran; skilled, competent and entirely ruthless, with an eye for detail and an analytical bent that the Captain had come to thoroughly appreciate, "Report from the boarding parties, Sir. The operation is nearing completion. All data, schematics and materials have been recovered successfully, and the charges have been set."

"Very good. Casualties?"

"Negative, Sir. Resistance was limited and the assault teams dealt with it."

"Excellent," he turned back to his console, but paused as the XO hesitated, "something else?"

"Yes, Sir. Two of the scientists surrendered and are offering further technical data in exchange for their lives. And there were a number of other survivors, mostly the families of the station staff. They're currently being held under guard in the gymnasium."

Blake considered, "I see," turning to face his subordinate more fully he raised a brow in query, "recommendations?"

The XO shrugged, "If they wanted the scientists they should have paid for them, but I suppose there may be a bonus in it if we can extract useful data from them."

"And the families?"

He sighed, "it's unlikely any of them possess the technical expertise to diffuse the charges, but it's not impossible..."

Blake nodded, "That is correct, Commander, and there's no point in taking unnecessary chances, so shoot them. Oh, and make sure there's nothing left of those two destroyers, no incriminating ship's logs or flight recorders floating about out there that might turn up and prove a later inconvenience."

The man saluted, "Very good, Sir."

The Captain held up a hand, causing him to pause, "Oh, before you go, have a look at this."

"Sir?"

Blake gestured, "It's a report from Control. Seems some naval officer is puttering about in her little dipshit cruiser and making a nuisance of herself with the local riffraff."

The XO shrugged, "Good for her?"

Blake snorted, "Now now, that's hardly the attitude. Anyway, it seems her proclivities have garnered sufficient attention to merit a response."

This time the XO's eyes widened, and his voice was incredulous, "They're sending us after one cruiser?"

"Hardly. No, it's just an advisory. They've resorted to employing a local outfit to deal with the matter," he glanced at the readout, "The Rimward Corsairs?"

"Never heard of them."

Blake gestured, "Their tactical assessment is on the file," he sighed and shook his head, "they look like a shower of goofballs to me."

The XO peered down at the data, reading quickly, "You doubt they can get the job done?"

There was a snort, "I doubt they could pour piss from a boot if the instructions were written on the heel."

This time it was the XO who looked distinctly thoughtful, "You expect they'll fuck up? And I'm guessing you also suspect that if they do fuck up, they're not the types to employ proper operational security in the first place, or remain tightlipped about it in the second?"

"Correct."

"Then why send them?"

Blake shrugged, "Call it a questionable middle management decision. It didn't come direct from Control," he sniffed, "I suspect it's an error of judgement that will be dealt with soon enough."

"Hmm, I can imagine."

The XO pursed his lips, "Who's the mark? We know anything about them?"

With a flick of his fingers Blake swiped a copy of the data feed to the XO's pad, "Here."

The man grunted his thanks as they both continued their perusal of the file. The XO had a prodigious ability to absorb information swiftly and it quickly came to the fore as his eyes flicked across the feed with uncanny speed, "Frances Frobisher, Captain, Teraxan Navy," he murmured, before looking up, eyes flat, "says here she's Thorian."

That caught Blake's attention.

The man froze for an instant, and then his head tilted slightly towards the XO, "She fight in the war?"

"Details are murky but looks like she did, and she's decorated. Doesn't say what for, but it lists the medals. He whistled, "It's quite a list."

The Captain made a semi-disgruntled sound, "Strange, I thought they expunged all records of those, wiped them from the files. Why'd she get to keep hers?"

"Doesn't say, but it looks like at least a couple of Alliance officers gave evidence on her behalf at her hearing," he shrugged, "I guess that's why she didn't end up in a penal colony as a war criminal."

Blake turned to the man, his hooded eyes now lit with something a little more than mere curiosity, "What's she flying?"

The XO flicked through the file before pausing, "One of the old Invictus class," he gave a soft chuckle, "long time since I've seen one of them."

Blake nodded, "Didn't you serve on one for a while?"

"Just the one tour," he laughed, "and that was a looong time ago, Captain."

"What do you make of them?"

The XO considered, his eyes almost glazing over as his mind sifted through memories, recalling and ordering the information into neat, orderly stacks, "A pre-war design, originally classed as an upgunned "Escort Cruiser", they had decent shields, good armour and very effective point defence coverage," he shrugged, "well, for the time anyway. They were meant to interdict attacking forces in fleet actions and mix it up."

Blake pursed his lips, "Flaws?"

"It's a flying brick, designed to take a kicking and keep on fighting, built from the keel up for reliability and ease of repair. But they were slow, and their original weapons mix had distinctly limited reach, making them less than ideal for independent operations. Still, as escorts for ships with a longer-ranged punch they could be damned handy. And anyone stupid enough to let one of those bastards get in close would be in for a very bad day."

He shrugged again, "My guess is the Teraxans are building up and desperate for ships, so they pushed this old bird back into service."

Blake grinned as he continued to examine the data, "A bit like her Captain, I imagine. Where's she based out of?"

"Zesta Station, that's a big trade-hub off to rimward from here."

The Captain fiddled with the controls for a moment longer, seemingly deep in thought before looking back at the XO again, "Tactical assessment; can these yahoos take her?"

The XO considered, "An Invictus might be old, but she hits like a fucking truck. If they stand off, they should be able to pound her, but if she gets in close, that old bastard will go through them like proverbial shit through a goose."

There was a snort of harsh laughter, "You ever see a goose, Commander?"

The man blinked, "Uh, no. I saw a picture once, when I was a kid. Nasty looking thing; claws, fur, whiskers?"

Blake closed his eyes with a despairing sigh, "Thats a cat..."

"Oh."

The XO paused for a moment, before seemingly dismissing the new datum as an irrelevance and speaking again, "What do you want to do about this, Sir."

For a moment, Blake continued to drum his fingers on the control panel, staring off into space as he did, then he nodded, "Once operations are concluded, set course for Zesta Station, mayhap it's time the crew indulged in a little shore leave, and who knows? Maybe we might cross paths with this annoying Teraxan Captain."

The XO saluted and stepped back, "Aye aye, Sir."

Presently, its gruesome business done, the predatory shape of the battlecruiser stirred. Its powerful drive engines ignited, and it began to move, curving with ominous grace outwards and back towards the darkness that had spawned it, while behind it, the dead carcass of the murdered science station was consumed in the brilliance of a thermonuclear pyre...

...

Aboard Zeus, Damon had watched as the gunships vanished into the vortex of hyperspace with a flash of man-made lightning, and then he swore, a lot.

With a thoroughly disgruntled sound he slumped back in the command chair, taking a moment to compose his thoughts before looking across the bridge, "Selene?"

The navigator looked up, "Sir?"

"You're my new XO, congrats."

"Huh?"

"You heard," he looked round, "Helen, take Nav."

"Sir?"

He sighed, "Okay, I'm not in the best of humours, so if I have to repeat another order, someone's gonna be spending some time in the brig. Selene, take over as XO, Helen, you take Nav. Any questions?"

There was a chorus, "No Sir!"

"Good, now get me Captain Thorsson on Apollo."

A moment later he found himself looking down into the bearded face of his fellow starship commander, "Sir, in the absence of Captain Frobisher you are senior officer. Do you have any orders?"

Frowning, the man shook his head, "She really went through with it?"

Struggling not to swear again, Damon grit his teeth and nodded, "She did."

"So... What happens now?"

Pursing his lips, Damon gazed down at his hands as he silently considered. And as he did, he blanked out the electronic sounds emanating around him and the sibilant whisper from the air vents. Finally, he shook his head, "Fuck it, let's do this."

Decision made, he drew a deep breath and lifted his eyes to meet those of the man gazing back at him from the viewplate, "Sir, I request permission to come alongside and transfer our prisoners to Apollo?"

He fancied he saw a fair glimmer of understanding in the eyes of Captain Thorsson as the man replied, "May I ask why?""

Damon shrugged, "Because, Sir, I regret to report that we are about to suffer a catastrophic navigational malfunction."

Thorsson nodded, "Hmm, you are, are you?"

"Afraid so, Sir, at this point I think a series of misjumps are inevitable."

There was a moment of silence before the man snorted, "I see... And if you were to hazard a guess, might you be able to offer a clue as to where you might end up."

Damon shrugged, "Difficult to say, Sir, looks like somewhere out on the Frontier."

The reply that came back was as dry as a bone, "Indeed. Well, that's just... terrible."

Meeting the man's eyes, Damon felt he had to add, "Sorry about this, Sir, really."

Wulf gave him a ferocious grin, "Don't be, Captain. In your shoes I'd be like to do the fucking same. As long as you know what you're getting yourself into, and what it'll cost you."

"I do, Sir."

The Captain of Apollo nodded, "Okay then, go do what you must," he leaned close to the screen, eyes flashing, "and if, on your travels, anyone should perchance get in your way, you blow a fucking hole in them and go right through the bastards."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Cutting the circuit, Damon turned to the bridge crew, "Look I..."

Helen butted in, "Captain, I seem to have fucked up our jump coordinates. No idea how it happened, but it looks I've plotted a course to the Shalako system."

Oddly, none of the other bridge crew seemed to find this in the least bit surprising.

He was silent a moment, before clearing his throat, "That's uh..."

Selene sniffed, "Shocking? I agree completely, Sir, I'll be sure to make a note in her next performance review," she shrugged, but her lips curled in a mischievous smile as she did, and she couldnt help adding, "we can discuss it right after our court martial."

Shaking his head with a wry chuckle he finally sighed, "Okay then, here we go."

Settling back in the command chair he lifted his chin and eyed them all before speaking, his voice now firm, determined, and completely devoid of uncertainty, "Take us into jump if you please, Helen. We're going after the Captain."

...

The room wasn't dimly lit, not even remotely gloomy. In fact, it was almost entirely unremarkable, simply another office, in a complex of doubtless similar offices. It was well appointed, modern and bright.

Still, the guard at the reception desk was built like a proverbial brick outhouse, and his watchful eyes and flat, expressionless face, did little to ease his nerves. This was not a meeting he had been looking forward to.

After what had happened the summons was inevitable. As soon as he saw the report he had given serious thought to just leaving. Not even packing, just getting up, walking out the door and doing his very best to simply vanish. But that would have been ultimately pointless. There was nowhere he could go, nowhere he could hide, where the Syndicate wouldn't find him. He'd certainly worked for them for long enough to know that.

When the exterior door slid shut behind him, the soundproofing automatically kicked in, immediately banishing all exterior sounds completely. That definitely didn't help.

The man who came to meet him was dressed in an immaculate business suit. He was tall, lean, and moved with predatory grace that was distinctly ominous. The reflective lenses of his cybernetic eyes definitely didn't help either.

The figure stood there, silently, utterly ignoring the awkwardly outstretched hand until he nervously withdrew it, only then did he speak, his voice soft, unthreatening, and utterly fucking terrifying, "This way, she'll see you now."

He'd met her before, Hell, he'd had a drink with her twice. They'd flirted; she'd laughed at his jokes. Surely that meant something...

Apparently not.

She sat behind her desk staring at him as he came in, no stupid power games, no feigning interest in something on her screen until she deigned to notice him; nothing. Just those eyes; cold, empty and dark.

"Would you care for a coffee?"

He blinked, "Wha...?"

She gestured to a side table, "Coffee?"

"Uh, no. I mean, no thanks," he licked his lips nervously and made a conscious effort not to mop his sweating brow, "look, uh, Cordelia..."

"No."

The man still standing at his side shifted just ever-so-slightly.

"P-pardon."

Her lips thinned, "Not Cordelia, not today."

He swallowed, "I... I'm Sorry, ma'am."

She didn't even blink, instead she gestured to a chair, "Sit. Explain."

Drawing a frightened, no, a terrified breath, he began to speak, "I-I don't know what to tell you, ma'am. It was routine. Just a routine contract. A protection job, and now," he swallowed again, "now they're just... gone."

"Gone?"

He shrugged, "Well, there's some debris, maybe a few body parts I suppose, if we sifted closely enough, but they got taken out by heavy ordnance, missiles probably. There's almost nothing left."

The fingers of her left hand started tapping on the surface of her desk. He didn't know if that was a good sign, or a bad one, and he wasn't really sure he wanted to find out.

The woman continued to stare, "What were they protecting?"

"A science station."

"On the Rim?"

He nodded, "Yea. That's why they needed protection."

The fingers kept tapping, "What was the nature of the research?"

"Uhh... gravitic anomalies, they said."

The tapping stopped.

For a moment she sat as still as stone, then she leaned forward, and when she spoke her voice held a definite edge of... impatience, "The Boss will be asking about this, probably personally. If you want me to tell him that two of our destroyers were taken out in an obviously professional hit, and the science installation they were protecting was nuked into vapour over something as prosaic as research into gravitic fucking anomalies, then it's your funeral."

"B-but that's what they said..."

"You're an idiot."

The man standing beside him shifted again, just slightly, and his heart, already thumping wildly, began to race. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he had to force himself not to collapse off the chair and fall to his knees. It wouldn't have helped, and begging would just annoy her, "Look, Cor... uh, Ma'am, I might have fucked this up, but... I've been loyal. I've worked for you for years and I've been loyal. That's gotta count for something, surely."

Her eyes didn't flicker, she just sat there, considering, and he could almost see the scales being weighed.

He forced himself to sit still as his fate was decided.

After a nightmarish eternity she spoke again, "Go find out what these people were really up to, and why it got two of our ships killed, and then maybe, just maybe, I'll see if we can keep you alive."

"Thank you! Oh, dear Gods thank y-"

"Get out."

She sat there quietly after he had left, silently contemplating what she had been told. After a few moments her 'assistant' returned. He didn't smile, he almost never did, but she could sense the faintest trace of humour behind his eyes.

She sighed, "No point shooting him. I just had the carpets cleaned."

He shrugged, "I could have killed him outside."

"Maybe tomorrow."

His smile was barely a flicker, but it was nice to see now and again.

After a moment he moved to the cabinet and unbidden poured her a drink. His balance was perfect, every movement controlled, measured, almost elegant. She had killed before, and violence was certainly no stranger to her. But she knew this man was probably one of the most expensive assassins in the sector, and quite capable of ending her life in a heartbeat using nothing more deadly than the coaster upon which he deftly placed her glass.

His smirk was there, behind his eyes, she could sense it. She loved watching him, and he damned well knew it.

She sipped the expensive liquor, closing her eyes as she momentarily savoured its heat. This incident troubled her. The loss of two ships, even destroyers, didn't mean that much in the grand scheme of things, but there were very few outfits; Hell, there were very few navies that were willing to challenge the Syndicate. They were virtually a law unto themselves, and everyone knew what crossing them meant.

It could have been one of the other cartels making a move, but somehow that didn't smell right. Besides, there had been no signs, no warnings, and that was probably the most troubling aspect of all. The Syndicate was known to pay extremely well for good information, and they had contacts everywhere.

She sighed, "Too many unanswered questions."

Deep in thought, she stared at the glass for a long moment, turning it idly in her hand as she examined the many facets of the gleaming crystal.

With a sudden, deliberate movement she drained it, lowering it back to the table before turning to address her companion.

"Contact the Hades. I have a job for them."