Acronyms & Abbreviations: TANS (Terran Alliance Naval Ship), annie plant (matter-annihilation plant, an abbreviation shamelessly borrowed from Schlock Mercenary).
“We never should have taken this job,” muttered Trax’al’won. “Never should have let myself get suckered this close to Terran space. Should’ve jumped ship the minute I heard. Never should’ve helped load the slaves”
The squat Weequr nervously brushed at his arm spikes as the Skulker approached the Mylar gate. The other three members of the bridge crew didn’t hide their anxiety any better. Keer’ta’quin, their Weequr communications expert, was staring at his console as if it might suddenly attack, and Trax’s broodmate and shipmaster, Fin’la’won, had gone deathly still. Only Zehp, their Murid pilot, seemed the least bit collected, but he had to be. Lining up a clean approach vector to any gate was hard, and the Mylar-Fielding jump was considered one of the hardest of them all. Small mistakes killed.
Trax shuddered. He’d almost rather get caught by Terrans than miss a jump. Almost.
“Thirty seconds to event horizon,” intoned the helmsman. “Begin final jump preparations.”
Trax waited until the last possible second before slamming down the safety locks on the gravitics array. He always hated shutting them down — without those delicate sensors, the Skulker was all but blind — but the stress of a jump would tear an active system apart. Better to turn your face from your enemy’s claw than to watch it tear through your eye.
No point in shielding your face for too long, though. The Weequr was already rehearsing the restart procedure when the ship jolted through the gate.
“We’ve got a ripple from the gate, Commander. Not another rock, either. This one looks like a merchantman. A slaver, if I don’t miss my guess.”
“You sure about that, Tremaine? You’ve said the same thing about the last half-dozen rocks that drifted through.” The faintest hint of a smile played out over Commander John Tharm’s stern features.
Petty Officer Walt Tremaine grimaced. “This one’s pinging the gravitics, sir. Powered thrust, Galactic Compact style.”
“Very well, then. Let’s hope you don’t send my chasing off after another asteroid.” Tharn raised his voice to carry out over the TANS Moray‘s cramped bridge. “XO, sound the call to general quarters. Helm, bring us in on an intercept course. Tac, prepare to disable the ship’s engines. Sensors, do let me know if this turns out to be yet another false alarm.”
“Calling general quarters, aye.”
“Proceeding on intercept course, aye.”
“Preparing firing solution, aye.”
“Confirming not-rock status, aye.”
Tharn smiled coldly as the Moray shot towards the decelerating Compact freighter. He was going to enjoy this.
Trax’s nearly sweated through his vac suit in the forty-three seconds it took to bring the gravitic array back online. Forty-three blind seconds. It had felt like hours.
He glanced down at his console and let out a sigh of relief. Nothing on the broad sweep, which was as good as saying that there was nothing out there. Everything leaked grav waves onto the broad spectrum.
“No contact,” he said. “System looks abandoned.”
Tension bled from the bridge at his words. Fin loosed a death-grip on his chair arms, while Keer blinked widely and glanced around with evident relief. Even Zehp seemed to grow more relaxed, sinking back into his familiar Murid arrogance. Trax hadn’t realized how jumpy the crew was.
That’ll teach Fin to take on slave runs that skirt Terran space, the Weequr thought. Damn mammals nearly killed us with terror alone.
He fiddled with the fine-grained sensors as the Skulker swung about towards its next approach vector. Trax had never found anything with one of these secondary sweeps, but it was protocol, and the Broodfather alone knew what those twice-damned mammals were capable of. He wasn’t going to sheath his armspikes here.
One of the high-bands uncovered a small blip on his display. It didn’t stick around for long — Trax almost missed it entirely — but it was still there. Could the array be damaged? Glitchy arrays weren’t unheard, and they’d had to choose between hitting the gates with outdated jump charts or delaying some much-needed maintenance. The decision had practically made itself.
“Nice jump, Zehp,” said Keer. “You been taking lessons? I thought the Skulker was going to break apart on the jump in to Mylar.”
“I put some extra effort in for our esteemed passenger,” replied the Murid. “Besides, we’ve got some high-value chattel on board. Wouldn’t want to break one of their delicate little necks before that Alpier brings them to market now, would we?.”
“Doesn’t come out of my share, I just shoot the guns. Brag to the shipmaster if you want a raise.”
The ghost blinked back into life on a lower band, this time sticking around for a few seconds longer. It seemed marginally closer, but that was probably just his nervous brain playing tricks on him. The gravitics were probably just acting up. They had to be.
“Something the matter, Trax?” Fin had wandered over to the console and was peering over the Weequr’s shoulder. “You look like you just saw a Terran.”
Trax fought to keep his voice light. “Nah, nothing like that. Just wishing that we hadn’t skipped that last round of maintenance. Array’s throwing up ghosts like they’re sucklings.” The sensors tech rose to his feet. “You still remember how to run the sweeps? I’m going to go check the casing, make sure it’s not just a loose connector or something.”
Fin shortened his arm-spikes with amusement. “I haven’t forgotten yet. Go tinker in Skulker‘s bowels for a bit, we’ll be through this border region before you know it.” The Weequr’s tone grew more serious. “Just let me know what you find. Today doesn’t feel like a good day to take chances.”
Trax checked to ensure that his sidearm was strapped firmly in place before he rose. “That I can agree with. I’ll be back on deck well before we jump out.”
“Tremaine, any sign that they’ve seen us?”
“No, sir. The new multiband compensator seems to be doing the trick.”
“Excellent. XO, pass the word to Lieutenant Price and the Marines. ETA five minutes to intercept.”
Trax stared at the partially-disassembled gravitics array in mute horror. Every connection was fitted snuggly, none of the internals were even close to wearing out, and all of his diagnostics had come back clear. Nothing was wrong. He never should have seen those sensor ghosts.
Unless they weren’t ghosts, he thought. Unless they were Terrans.
He took off at a dead run. Trax had only just cleared the first hatch when the engineering compartment exploded.
“Clean hits on their aft nacelles, sensor arrays, and power grid, Commander. She’s dead in the water.”
“Nice shooting, Tac. Prepare to fire the pods once we’re in range. Helm, bring us alongside. Let’s get Price’s platoon onto that ship.”
“Readying boarding pods, aye.”
“Bringing us alongside, aye.”
Trax came to slowly. The ship had gone silent, the annie plant’s gentle hum replaced by eerie stillness. The corridors were bathed in the eery red of the emergency glowstrips, and the hatch behind him was sealed tight. Their artificial gravity had cut out, too.
It took the Weequr a second to figure out what had happened. Engineering must have taken a direct pulsar hit. That meant that their mechanic had been spaced. He would’ve joined the jovial Ooquir if he hadn’t ran when he did. His back still hurt from where he’d been slammed into the airlock. If it had closed a couple seconds slower, he might have been sucked out into space.
He drifted over to one of the wall panels and checked the readouts. Primary nacelles were out, main reactor conduits were cut, and the gravitics were doubtless smashed to pieces. Somebody had even triggered the override code that terminated the free-roaming slaves. That seemed a tad premature. Protocol only required the cooks and cleaners to be zapped in the event of a boarding.
Trax’s arm-spikes jacketed straight out as the sharp crackle of pulsar darts drifted down from the bridge. Could there be Terrans on the Skulker? Probably, although he couldn’t see how. Damn mammalian cunning. Where was his sidearm? It should be in his holster. It had been in his holster. Where’d it gone?
The slavemaster. He could get to the slavemaster. That old Daan would have kept their borrowed Nyctra battle-pair close and holed up in one of the more secure compartments. The four of them could make it to one of the escape pods and launch themselves at the gate. Even a blind jump was better than letting one of the Terrans get their hands on him.
Trax started as his back touched one of the bulkheads. Just a wall, not Terrans. At least he wasn’t just drifting through the corridor. The Weequr made his way deeper into the ship with short, timid hops. He had to make it to the slavemaster.
“Ground team, this is Moray. Status?”
Commander Tharn steepled his fingers and watched the young communications ensign. He was far too young, but that was hardly new. Every member of his crew, with the possible exception of his XO, was too young. Their first contact had been far too bloody.
“Moray, this is Ground Actual. We took the bridge with zero casualties. Three hostile KIA. They didn’t have time to wipe the manifests: looks like we netted ourselves slaver.”
“Current objective?”
“Mainframe control, Second Squad’s already been dispatched. First Squad will sweep the surrounding corridors and provide support.”
“Affirmative. Your technician get the helmet cams working?”
“Negative, we’re going to have to pass the issue on to proc. Can’t get half of the supposed ‘features’ of these Mark-III’s to work. It will not, however, affect combat readiness.”
“Happy hunting, then. Moray out.”
Trax had never realized how big the Skulker was. They could shove a hundred or so slaves into the cells, stuff the holds with ten thousand or so litres of cargo, and still have ample space for passengers and crew.
It took him nearly ten minutes of frantic zero-g hops to make it to the slavemaster’s quarters. He choked off a frustrated groan when he caught sight of the shapes moving inside the room.
Humans.
They were massive, nearly two metres tall and easily twice as wide as Trax. Their matte black armour looked like something out of a nightmare, all sharp angles and hard planes. Each of them cradled a rifle that could have easily passed for a small cannon. And not a single one of them made a sound.
Trax almost missed the smaller, four-legged form moving amidst the six humans. It almost looked like a Nedji, but he couldn’t picture one of those delicate avians wearing the same terrifying armour as the damned mammals. And no Nedji had ever moved with that much predatory grace. The creature was as much a soldier as the humans.
The slavemaster’s corpse wasn’t in the room. Neither were the bodies of the Nyctra battle-pair. That was good. That meant that his friend might still be alive. Their ships sole fare-paying passenger, however, hadn’t been as lucky.
d’Mylar-285 hadn’t even risen high enough to be granted a name. The low-ranking Alpier had chartered their ship on a gamble: had the Skulker reached its destination, a newly founded vassal demesne of Mylar, the slimy little jellyfish would have been all but guaranteed a spot on one of the lower councils. Now he was, quite literally, tied into a knot.
Trax couldn’t help but let out a small, sympathetic noise. That had to be painful.
Every head in the room spun towards him.
Shit.
“Moray, this is Ground Actual. We’ve bagged a VIP and have one of my fireteams preparing for immediate exfil. Shrinks are going to like this one. The rest of First Squad’s in pursuit of a fleeing target.”
“ETA on the mainframe penetration?”
“Ten minutes, sir. Second Squad would like to report that this junker’s internal system is a piece of shit. Tech says it’s like trying to hack into a rotted log.”
“A rotted log, sir?”
“He could tear it apart easily enough, but then the damn OS would fall apart under it’s own weight. The safeties on the annie plant would go with it.”
“Understood, I’ll see if we can pull some of our techs to help. Anything else to report?”
“Negative, although the remainder of 1st Squad is currently in pursuit of a hostile. I’ll have an update shortly.”
“We look forward to it. Moray out.”
Trax careened from bulkhead to bulkhead as he fled. He couldn’t hear the pursuing Terrans behind him, but frantic glances over his shoulder confirmed they were still there. They weren’t rocketing wildly about the corridors, either. They pushed off into the zero-g with smooth, purposeful motions, pausing occasionally to snap a shot off at the fleeing Weequr. The pulsar darts were getting awfully close.
Where was the blasted slavemaster hiding if he wasn’t in his quarters? He’d have gone to the mainframe, that room was defensible. Trax could make it to the mainframe. It was close.
He changed his plans as a black-armoured human emerged from the corridor ahead. The Terrans must have the mainframe by now. That left the escape pods or the slave cells. Could he use the slaves as leverage? That might work. They had at least a dozen well-trained Nedji, and those birds were valuable.
Three quick bounces later and he was rocketing down towards the cells, the Terrans hot on his heels. The small, four-legged alien that led his pursuers made even the graceful humans look clumsy and ill-suited for the zero-g.
He darted through the dining area, where the remains of the second watch were floating amidst a sea of blood. Pulsar fire had torn them to shreds before they’d had time to do anything more than draw their sidearms. Trax barely noticed the carnage.
He fled into an access hatchway and lunged for a door two decks down. He was close. Just another hundred metres of corridor and he’d be safe. That blasted slavemaster had better be there.
A pulsar round whizzed by his head, scorching his skin.
Trax rounded the last corner at near-breakneck before launching himself through the half-opened hatch. He could have wept for joy. The scarred Daan slavemaster was there, his asymmetrical form bent over an open electronics panel, along with the two towering Nyctra. Both of the wolf-like aliens had pulse rifles trained out the door.
“Thank the brood you’re alive,” panted Trax. “The rest of the ship’s crawling with Terrans.”
“I know,” said the slavemaster. “Why do you think we haven’t made a break for the pods?”
“You’re hoping to barter with the slaves?”
“Sorta. Terrans don’t hold with slaves the way civilized cultures do, so we’re trying something a little different.”
Trax peaked outside the crude barricade and immediately jumped back. A dozen pulsar darts barely missed his retreating head. He hadn’t even seen where the shots had come from.
“Whatever this idea is, it had better work. I don’t think we’re going to be able to shoot our way out of here.”
“Moray, this is Ground Actual requesting a private line to Moray Actual.”
“Ground Actual, this is Moray Actual. The line is secure.”
“Four of the crew have dug themselves into the slave cells. They’re demanding we allow them free access to the escape pods, and they’re threatening to vent as many slaves as they can if we don’t comply.”
“How far can they get with the pods, Lieutenant?”
“Surprisingly far, sir. Their ship can spit them into the gate with a good enough vector to get them back to Mylar.”
“Of course they can.” Tharn sighed. “You know we can’t negotiate, Price. The Admiralty’s been quite clear about that.”
“Understood, sir. Wasn’t going to ask, actually. You see, one of my engineers was kind enough to point out a conveniently placed maintenance tunnel running parallel to the cells. If we can get the breaching charge right…”
Tharn’s let his face relax into a predatory grin. This was the part of his job he loved.
Trax fidgeted with the control switch nervously. It was rigged up as a dead-man’s switch: if he lifted his claw off the trigger, the slave cells would vent atmosphere. Well, all the nearby ones would. Damn Terrans would probably block the signal before it could spread through the ship and hit the low-value chattel.
He had a pulse rifle braced awkwardly in his left arm, his arm-spikes jammed through the carry handle to keep him from dropping it. Trax really hoped he’d be able to aim the gun. One desperate, unarmed chase through the ship’s corridors was enough.
The two Nyctra hadn’t moved from their position covering the half-open hatch, but their ears were twitching up a storm. The slavemaster was even more agitated, seemingly unable do choose between taking cover behind an overturned table or skulking in a well-shadowed corner of the room. He, at least, had both hands free for his rifle. Trax should have never agreed to carry the blasted switch.
A metallic thud sounded from behind him, making him spin around and almost drop his rifle. The dead-man’s switch nearly followed as he fumbled to steady the long-barrelled weapon.
“Careful, insect,” growled the slavemaster. “You drop that and Terrans are going to get a mite angry.”
“I’ve got it, fleshwart. Just try not to shoot me in the back out of habit.”
The Daan just made a disgusted sound and slunk further into the shadows. Trax could barely make out its lumpy outline.
Another dull clang sounded from behind the rear bulkhead. Wasn’t the secondary nacelle back there? Yeah, it was. Probably tearing itself apart while they waited for the Terrans to cave. They really should have spent their last haul on maintenance, star charts be damned.
“Trax, you know what that noise is?” Any trace of contempt had vanished from the Daanf’s voice. “I barely know my way around this damned ship.”
“Probably just one of the nacelles,” explained Trax. “There’s nothing back there except a maintenance passage that leads–“
The room exploded into blinding white light.
Trax had dropped the switch, caught his rifle up in a two-handed grip, and scanned the room. The two Nyctra were already down, torn apart by pulsar darts and shrapnel from the exploded bulkhead, but the slavemaster was still up. He was pouring fire into a newly-opened hole in the rear bulkhead. The Terrans were answering with a volley of their own. A small, four-legged figure armoured in Terran black dove over the downed battlepair. Nobody noticed the gentle hiss of air escaping from the nearby slave cells.
Damn mammals must have cut through the maintenance tunnel, thought Trax. Now it’s well and truly hopeless.
Weighing the options didn’t take long. Trax turned and put twenty or so shots into the slavemaster before dropped the rifle, sheathing his arm-spikes and placing his arms in front of his head. His forearms faced inwards in the ritual gesture of surrender. The smaller, four-legged alien promptly tackled him. He had time for one last panicked realization before he was slammed into a bulkhead:
What did I do with the switch?
“Sergeant Twisted, this is Ground Actual. Moray just reported that their small-arms sensors lit up. Status?”
The Nedji’s voice came back tight with strain. “The hostage situation has been… resolved, sir. Four enemy hostiles are KIA.”
“Casualties?”
“None of ours, sir, but they managed to leave seventeen Nedji sucking vacuum before we could stop them. Would have been more if Second Squad hadn’t gotten them locked out of the rest of the ship.”
“Excellent work. Anything else to report?”
“No, sir, but I do have a request. May I see to the burial of the dead hostages? The ship’s been cleared, my squad can get by without me for an hour or so, and we don’t have any other Nedji to perform the rites.”
“I don’t see why not. Take all the time you need, Sergeant.”
Trax roused himself from unconsciousness for the second time that day. Practice hadn’t made the whole process any easier.
Their last secure hold had been torn apart. The Nyctra battle pair floated where they’d fallen, their chests torn apart by pulsar fire. Pieces of the Daan slavemaster drifted throughout room trailing thick grey blood. And, in the corner, the small armoured figure was busily wrapping a suffocated Nedji in a blanket. It had removed its helmet.
Trax watched the Terran with wide and terrified eyes. It couldn’t be anything but a Nedji. The four bright violet eyes were unmistakable, as was its downy plumage and and softly beaked face. He’d bought and sold hundreds like him. Only none of the Nedji he’d bought and sold had ever looked so dangerous. Or angry. Or wear such a large knife.
The avian caught the Weequr eyeing him and spoke, his GalStan flawless. “Good, you’re alive. I’d hoped, but you never really know with head trauma…”
“Are you—” The words caught in Trax’s throat. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Nah.” The Nedji’s eyes grew even harder. “No need. You’re already dead.”
A sigh of relief morphed into a strangled gasp as the avian continued. “Officially dead, at any rate. Real life hasn’t quite caught up with the bureaucracy.”
The armoured Nedji guided a blanket-wrapped corpse into the small airlock with reverent precision. Then it stepped back and cycled the lock, shooting it out into space.
There was still one more corpse. The Terran spoke as it drew another blanket around the pitiful scrap of feathers.
“You didn’t feed your slaves well, did you? Probably had some cocktail to let you get away with these diets, then fatten them up a few days before market. Cuts down on costs and all that.”
It tied off the blanket, then drew his knife. The Nedji had removed its left gauntlet. When it drew the knife across its exposed forearm, blue-tinged blood dripped down onto the blanket. Trax could only watch in silence.
“Don’t know why I’m surprised, though. I’ve heard the humans didn’t treat their chickens much better.”
The corpse shot out of the airlock. The Nedji pushed himself over to an emergency locker and pulled out a Weequr-sized EVA frame. He held it out with a pensive look on his face, then spun it around and popped open the control panel.
“Of course, Terran chickens can’t shoot guns, and the humans stopped killing chickens at around the same time they figured out how to grow artificial meat. Never figured out why the rest of the galaxy doesn’t do the same.”
The Nedji’s voice trailed off. Trax couldn’t hear what the creature was muttering to itself, but he didn’t like the tone. He didn’t like the sharp scraping sounds the knife was making, either.
“Now, little worm, slither in.” The Nedji pushed the frame his way, then gestured with his knife. “Be quick about it.”
Trax caught it and began to strap it on mechanically. He could’ve donned the emergency gear in his sleep.
“Here’s the thing:”
The hard-shelled boots cinched tight over his slippers.
“You don’t have much intelligence value.”
The propulsion pack locked in place on his back.
“And you certainly don’t wield any political capital.”
The helmet slid down over his bulbous head, its front face open.
“Nobody will come looking for you this close to Terran space. That means no military response, no salvage crews, and no rescue crews sweeping the space for damaged pods. No protests lodged agains the Terran embassy. And nothing to suggest that you didn’t die when we stormed the room.”
Trax felt an air canister slap into place on his back. He barely noticed the Nedji’s shove that sent him across the room.
“All of this can remain our little secret.”
It drifted closer to the Weequr and slapped the massive knife into his hand. He heard a sharp ripping noise as it was taped against an unresisting palm. Then he was flying backwards, through a cramped opening, until his back came up against an exterior hatch. The Nedji watched impassively.
“You may want to seal that bucket.”
The airlock cycled as Trax scrambled. He barely got his helmet’s glass down in time.
The Weequr breathed deeply as he studied his readouts. He enough air to last for weeks, along with climate control for little more than half that. And that blasted knife. But there were no food stores. No propulsion and communications. Not even the headlights were left.
The frozen, twisted corpse of a Nedji bumped into the slaver. He screamed. Nobody heard.