Legend of the Stalker's Fang

[Blue Ghost]

The seemingly lifeless hulk of the Solomani Far Trader slowly tumbled in the dim glow of the system’s single red dwarf, as the Stalker’s Fang ebbed closer with her serrated camouflaged hull moving like an ocean borne predator through the grim black. Aboard the bridge her captain’s fangs dripped with saliva, as if waiting to deliciously chomp into the stricken vessel that had some how managed to wend its way into the Extents. The Solomani design was odd and alien all at once, yet somehow its half rounded form with a nose that looked like it had been taken from an Imperial type-R and tacked on as an afterthought, promised to be full of wealth—riches taken from the triad-region of space known as the Imperium, Consulate and his own native extents. A new breed of pray. The rounded grill vents on the trader’s topside and her huge tail section “spoiler” that ran her width and was canted aft, added to her strangeness this far out from Terran space. Not altogether an unknown design, but a rarity all the same. The latest data packets stripped from Imperial information traffic identified this ship as the Evening Star. What was inside. What would it taste like? A Solomani ship that had traversed deep black, across the Imperium, as her class name suggested, a far trader. Through fate, luck and circumstance, she had fallen into the hands of some now hapless merchant captain who was about to suffer his vessel’s same fate.

Captain Kahyvagh Gahv again felt his mouth go moist as he instinctively sniffed the air, half expecting the faint scent of blood to be floating on the hundreds of meters of sheer vacuum between the Stalker’s Fang and the Terran. They continued to close with a ship that showed no sign of power, and had given up fighting to no avail.

In the near black of the bridge where the only illumination were the various displays showing attitude, relative velocity and course projection, all of wihch reflected or fell onto Gahv’s gray-black-and-white facial hair, there was nothing but the electronic silence of occasional beeps and computer chirps. The computer graphic of a series of rectangles showing the corsair’s projected intercept course glinted off of Gahv’s deep gray eyes as he stared at the Solomani ship, only briefly turning his head to look at one display to the next, making sure there were no course deviations and that all of his turrets remained locked on target. The fur on the back of his neck had risen to an excited frenzy, but had fallen flat after the Far Trader had lost control and ceased fire. But now he felt a new sense of blood lust, and his mind and heart sent adrenaline and signals to his body that the first phase of the hunt was over, and now the real struggle to bring down the merchant would begin.

Gahv nearly half-snarled his commands for his tactical officer to show the far trader’s position statistics. Energy output, zero. Power output, zero. Scanning emissions, zero. But she was still hot, which meant that there were emergency life support systems running on overtime to compensate for the lethality that the Fang’s gunnery crew had poured into her. No plasma vented, but the dim red glitter and glow of laser heated particles glinting in the red dwarfs light, sheered and blasted from the Terran starship’s hull, created an ethereal stream of sparkling metal which was dazzling to the eye.

Gahv and the rest of his crew did not know what red was, but the shades of dark gray told them a story of a starship that had decided to take a short cut, and now had paid the price for it, so for primate and wolf descendent alike, it was the blood in spite of the Vargrs’ relatively primitive eye structure.


A high pitched beep perked Gahv’s ears, which were silhouetted against the dim bridge lights lighting the single armored sliding door. Gahv’s fur again went erect as his adrenal gland pumped copious amounts of energy into every synapse of his physical being. The fur lining his body bristled from the edges of his ears and down his neck to where his coarse and battle hardened fur met the armored carapace of his combat space suit, a much cursed inferior design to the more expensive and technically superior Imperial armor of nearly the same design. Curse all humanity and their treacherous yet effective contemplative ways. So often they fought as they played, unfairly, and it was only Gahv’s tenaciousness that had seen him, his ship, and his crew through over a dozen raids.

Gahv didn’t pretend to understand humans with their high degree of organization for simple pack hunts, or what they termed as counter insurgency operations, or pirate sweeps—whatever that was. Gahv’s thinking didn’t go beyond pack level tactics, and even then he detested having to share the spoils of a well thought out raid with other ships and their crews. Going alone, like some human crew gone rogue and desiring to don the fur and fangs of his kind by illegally raiding their space lanes, was far more profitable.

Gahv half snarled half barked an order for more tactical data on the human vessel. Treacherous creatures. How did they ever manage to keep ahead of the Vargr technologically, again, was beyond Gahv’s ken, but somewhere deep in the recesses of his hunter’s thinking he knew the humans were up to no good amongst themselves, and would someday bring their own downfall. In the mean time Gahv and others of his kind would have to eek out an existence by lawfully hunting down humans senseless enough to seek fortune in the Extents.

A flurry of numbers and labels coalesced and danced on the tactical display, a CGI image of the Solomani designed vessel appeared, also duplicating her slow tumble. The readout also displayed arrows pointing to breaches, energy or heat sources, and a number of other minutiae that annoyed Gahv. Engineers, gunners, tech experts might find these words and numbers appealing, but all Gahv wanted to know was was she dead or alive. And if she lived, then what was left with her to fight with? If she was dead, then how were her crew faring, and were they armed? Gahv didn’t care who owned it, where it was built, how many owners she had had, her tonnage, nor where she was headed when she came upon the Stalker’s trap. He wanted to know if she was a wounded animal or not.

Gahv’s steely gaze remained unmoved as they closed distance. The predominantly disk like form of the Solomani vessel grew in size with each passing moment as various readouts on the bridge showed approach course and scrolled through thousands of numbers that meant nothing to the crew, but were the life blood of the ship’s AI network. Computer generated graphics of projected paths, rotation rates, distance to various objects, and relative velocity (including her rotational angular velocity) flashed and scrolled over the dozens of screens large and small on the corsair’s bridge. Each light, each photon, each diode found its way to Gahv’s retina, his eyelids twitching in anticipation.

He heard his navigator and copilot exchange some words about approach vector and how to line themselves up with the stricken vessel, but all of it was lost on Gahv. Like the predators of millennia before his time, he stood fixated on what might have been a slab of freshly killed meat. Again he could feel his mouth salivating in anticipation. Instinctively a low barely audible snarl left his gritted teeth as he demanded an update.

Moments later he got a reply and felt the ship’s reverse thrusters fire up to slow and adjust the corsair’s pitch and yaw as pilot and navigator worked in tandem to orient the corsair to secure air locks. The Stalker slewed and pivoted to starboard, and moments later Gahv could hear the boarding gangway fire off from the hull. The impact mutedly translated through the metal supports connecting both ships and holding the high tension fiber corridor in place. The metallic impact was another signifier to Gahv’s psyche. Again, the kill. The hunt. The anticipation.

“Gangway secure, captain.” Came Veelash’s mid toned voice. All business. No hunter’s blood lust in him, for the hunt was over. But for Gahv the thrill was just beginning. Space combat was a dangerous proposition, and not one he relished for all of its silent lethality, but once it was over with, then getting to see inside the bounty they had vanquished was the payoff.

Gahv turned to Veelash, “Standby boarding party. I’ll be there momentarily.”

 

[Blue Ghost]

“Aye, captain.”

Gahv stepped forward to peer out the lateral portion of the bridges windscreen to see the gang-tube securely attached to the merchant’s air lock, then quickly glanced at a readout showing the pressurization of the tube before exiting the bridge—trust but verify. Gahv turned and stormed towards the armored door, his right hand feeling his low holstered sidearm which gave him both comfort and confidence.

The armored door slid shut and sealed itself after Gahv stepped off the bridge and into the main hexagonal shaped corridor, lined with struts to give the ship extra rigidity in combat, and in the rare event of a ram—a tactic Gahv had never contemplated, but against a foe like human vessels, it was a thing he kept in the back of his mind. Even at this stage he wouldn’t put it beyond the crew of the Evening Star to have some device or weapon that would cut open the gangway as he and his troops were attempting to board.

Gahv grabbed his helmet and high energy laser carbine, commonly known in Imperial parlance as a “HEL Gun”, and climbed down the ladder to the lower deck where a dozen troopers were waiting for him, all fully kitted in the same armored vaccsuit, some with more battle scars, bullet holes, laser burns and patches than others, but all assembled and waiting for Gahv with cowed ears.

Gahv finished sealing his helmet, then took his prized possession, an Imperial laser pistol with an extended magazine, and strapped on the extra large shoulder holster over the suit. He couldn’t remember what the weapon’s proper name was. Something unpronounceable by Vargr standards, but lethal sounding to the human ear. Truth be told Gahv preferred the big loud armor punching heavy side arms that made a lot of noise and flash to intimidate the opposition, but, function over form he told himself. That, and the laser weapon was far deadlier than anything human chemistry and engineering could come up with. Human—there was that word again. Still, for all that, on his other hip he carried a standard noise maker revolver in case he needed to make a point to some hapless victim or his crew, or both, that he was in command, and no one dare defy his authority.

The boarding party were armed with a multiple of weapons, from sawed off shotguns to mercenary hand-me-downs from the Imperium, including an antiquated ACR that hadn’t been in service with mainline Imperial soldiers for over fifty years, if not longer. Each trooper double checked his weapon, creating a symphony of a series of metallic clicks, slides, clacks and locks as chambers were loaded, accompanied by the exhilarating climbing whine of energy weapons being charged and primed.

He checked his life support and seal on his helmet once more before ordering Kael to open the air lock. Kael, the trim and mostly black and white furred lieutenant passed the order onto the muscular sergeant to open the air lock.


Kael was the lead, Gahv’s lieutenant, sometimes his sergeant, for even though he had a hunter’s mind for tactics, he, quite literally, barked orders at the rest of the boarding party to storm positions as opposed to passing on Gahv’s tactical wizardry, especially since Gahv lead the charge—like now.

The hiss of the door opening as air molecules gushed from one chamber to the next, filled the corsair’s lower deck. Soon the airlock was wide open to the main gangway tube. If there was to be treachery, then now was the time. But the gang tube mere undulated emptily as it contained breathable air for one ship to transit its crew to the other.

Gahv walked to the edge of the airlock’s deck, and let himself fall into the weightlessness of the artificial corridor of liveable space suspended by nothing but the vacuum outside. He shoved off and felt his body float free in a near straight line to the Solomani’s air lock. Behind was his combat engineer Zhegh, who immediately put a hand held unit with a tiny LCD and datalink to his helmet onto the external locking mechanism. For several moments Gahv watched the older Vargr run one routine after another, trying to outwit the security AI into opening the outer door, but for naught.

Gahv was growing impatient, he could feel his blood lust growing cold and did not want to lose the feeling. “Open it!”

Zhegh, without question put the electronic lockpit into his suits breast pocket, and immediately pulled a micro plasma torch. He pulled down the shade on his visor and went to work. Gahv turned away from the blindingly bright hyper-charged gaseous flame as did the rest of his boarding part, and let Zhegh do his work. Minutes went by, and the electric flame died, followed by the sound of Zhegh grunting as the outer door slid aside only to reveal the inner door. But, through luck or happenstance, it was partially open, and Gahv’s men immediately stormed in to help Zhegh pry it open to reveal a veritable warehouse of cargo and freight containers stacked up to the ceiling.

That’s when the first shot rang out, striking Ghrisawh’s faceplat, shattering the ballistic grade glass and knocking him to the deck unconscious.

Gahv and his men noted that that ship’s AG system was still functional, and if they could hear weapons’ fire, then that meant that there was air in here. Which meant the humans were still alive, and like their treacherous reputation, had played the part of the wounded beast only to show their fangs as that first single shot was followed by a hail of gunfire from all quarters.

Gagharn was the next to fall. A storm of full automatic weapons punctured his suit, turning him into a lifeless mass as the image of dark gray life giving ichor that was his blood oozed from his suit.

Gahv drew his heavy sidearm with his left hand and fired in the general direction of the enemy gunfire on the upper gantry behind a stack of cargo containers. The report from the large caliber weapon was thunderous and deafening, each shot audibly putting to shame the relative pops of the full automatic rifles and electronic searing-snaps of those in his party armed with laser weapons.

Gahv fired off the last of his sidearms round, and then switched to his HEL gun, laying down a lethal stream of high-energy light that cut through containers and human alike. Gahv stood in the open while his men took cover, returning fire when they braved a chance to do so. All the while Gahv, his white fangs bared brazenly, stood his ground.

Gahv locked onto each distant and partially concealed muzzle flash on the other side of the cargo bay. One, two, three and more human bodies dropped as the bright crimson beam found its mark. By this time Gahv’s boarding party had regained enough of its confidence to come out from their cover, weapons levelled, and firing as anything that moved.

The once stale recycled air was now alive with the scent of cordite, cordine, ozone, and fresh kill. Gahv stepped forward with purpose, scanning the area with his weapon, anticipating anything out of the ordinary. You only lived once, and if he were to die, then it wouldn’t be because some human had caught him unawares. The HUD on his armored faceplate and his own eyes and other senses soaked up input to allow Gahv’s hunter’s instinct to guide his every step—watching, waiting, expecting, sensing, and even desiring and hoping some human would come out and challenge his aim.

“Check the bridge.” Gahv didn’t raise his tone, but was all business. No need for bravado here. He had proven his point, and the need for barking tones was long gone. Gahv raised his face plate to let the chemical ridden air filter into his super olfactory passages, and get a better sense of who was alive, and where they were hiding. The electronic wizardry of human and Vargr engineers alike couldn’t satiate his own desire to smell it with his own nose, no matter how good humans were at creating electronic contrivances.

 

[Blue Ghost]

“Open the freight, captain?”

Gahv didn’t know who asked, but replied in general, “After we secure the ship. Kael, take two men aft and secure engineering. The rest come with me.”

Gahv again strode with purpose, his eyes and nose scanning for anything suspicious. As usual for a human crewed ship the corridors stank with a mixture of pleasant foods and strong cleaners. Humans had a knack for cleanliness—human depending. Why they couldn’t live with a little grime or rust on the bulkheads was beyond him. What mattered were how the engines ran, how the weapons sang when needed, if the power plant delivered enough juice to keep the air breathable and lasers primed, not if the consoles and interior walls were free of scuff marks. Again, he never understood humans, and disliked them even more.

The ship’s hold bowed towards the center as Gahv led his team to her forward spaces, presumably where the bridge was on this design. Most of the light was yellow or white, which meant that during his transition through the gang tube that somehow the humans had gotten their power plant back on line. That made it all that much more imperative to reach the bridge or that Kael secure engineering.

The single door leading to the merchant’s living spaces was the accursed iris design. In spite of their reputation they weren’t impervious, but they were far tougher than their reputation suggested.

Again to Zhegh, “Open it!”

“Weapons on the other side, captain.” Barzh flatly stated dropping his scanner to let it dangle off his belt so he could put both hands on his HEL Gun.

Gahv motioned his men to the side of the corridor, two crouched, one went prone as they waited for Zhegh to do his magic with the micro plasma flame, but Gahv stood there defiantly, as if daring whoever was on the other side of the door to shoot him now or forever hold his peace.

But Gahv grew impatient. How he wanted his weapons to do the service Zhegh’s little device was performing now on the bulkhead. How much more devastating and effective it would be to immolate the door with pure weapons’ fire, and then storm in in true Vargr fashion.

The plate on the bulkhead next to the door’s locking mechanism fell off. Zhegh reached in and torqued the right lever, connected the right switch without electrocuting himself, then the iris valve expanded from the middle as if it had never been secured.

Gahv took a cautious step inside and sniffed the air. One human, maybe one other with all the other scents left behind, but definitely one. Gahv expected another human trick, but with weapon at the ready, whether he would suffer the same fate as his crewman or no, he would make whoever took a shot at him pay with their life.

There was one human in here. They could all smell it. A sweet scent, and sickly powerful as to be a reek.

Then a high pitched scream as a lone figure popped up from behind the navigational console and let out three high caliber shots that knocked back Zhegh. Gahv and the rest of his men bathed the area with high powered percussion and energy weapons’ fire.

The figure, wearing a bright orange armored vacc suit, was blown into the console lining the bridge’s outer bulkhead and fell to the deck. Dressed as it was there was a chance it had survived. Gahv and his men inched forward, weapons ready and canting downwards as they drew closer.

Yes, this scent was different. Gahv could tell. Peering over the edge of the navigational console he saw the pale form of what appeared to be a young male with its exaggerated head-fur tied back behind its head in a kind of tail.

Then over his headset on the tactical channel, “Engineering secure, captain. There’s no one here. Those people we encountered on the cargo deck were hired security.”

Gahv digested the information before replying, “Does this design have a launch?”

“Yes, captain, but it's still in the bay. It appears crew and passengers escaped.”

Gahv felt an ounce of rage creep in. He would prefer no survivors, but somehow during the fight the crew and whatever other non-security compliment had stolen away. But how?

Gahv slung his weapon, pushed his men aside and grabbed the human by the collar of its vacc suit with his right hand, then drew his sidearm with his left. Yes, young and perfumed. He never understood the human need to drench themselves in scent. Like all other space faring humans, this one probably only spoke Galanglic. Gahv did his best to muster the right lexicon.

“Gahveer ees yuu khreew?”

Gahv had not reloaded his sidearm, but this thing did not know that, and so he brought the flat faced smooth skinned creature closer while pushing the barrel of his revolver to its forehead.

Again, “Gahveer ees yuu khreew?”

The human didn’t reply.

“Secure this thing.” Gahv shoved it away, the human smacked into the piloting station before falling to the deck. “A ship without a crew but a security team left behind. Go back to the hold and start opening the containers. I want to know what we’ve caught.”

“Aye, captain.”

There was a groan from the main entrance. Apparently Zhegh was still alive. At his venerable age of over fifty, he had seen more than his share of missions and good luck to see him through the worst dangers.

“You live.” Gahv plainly stated, resisting the urge to help his old friend to his feet, preferring the old combat engineer rise of his own power.

“The spirits are with me, as always. That, and I did slip an extra plate into my suit.”

“Engineer’s intuition?” Gahv questioned.

“Luck.” Zhegh replied, the age and fear in his voice coming through loud and clear. “We have a prisoner?”

Gahv shook his head, “I don’t have time for prisoners. This one is tied up because I don’t want it causing anymore problems. I have the rest of the squad back in the hold seeing what we’ve nabbed for ourselves.”

Zhegh looked at the human, sniffed it, cocked his head in thought, and then motioned with his chin, “That one there, captain. I believe that’s a female. They typically don’t fight or remain as starship security. A few exceptions I suppose.”

Gahv didn’t have any opinion on human society and how it treated its child bearers. From what he knew human females tended human pups far longer than what he deemed necessary, and no human child matured as fast as a Vargr pup, which puzzled and angered Ghav all the more since somehow, again, humans maintained an edge in military technology and all other things.

“We should question it.” Zhegh offered.

“I’ve already asked it where the crew went, but all it did was stare back with its maw open. No words of any kind.”

“Always with you there is one try, and no more.”

“When it didn’t reply I applied force, but all it did was let out a human yelp.”

“That would be a cry, captain.”

“A cry? What for? We’re in the confines of a ship, not on a hunting preserve.”

“It’s their female’s way of signaling danger. It differs from a pack cry.”

But Gahv wasn’t interested, “Can you access their logs? I want to see the manifest.” Gahv’s tone again went back to his all-business demeanor—no passion, no anger, no joy, a flat deadly tone invoking obedience.

“I can, captain, but with your permission?” Zhegh raised his eyebrows in endearment as he gestured towards the human female.

“Be quick, engineer. I want to know what they were carrying that required a security team to remain on board.”

Zhegh bowed his head slightly as he lowered his ears acknowledging Gahv’s desire to get on with the operation.

Zhegh approached the human. Blue eyes, rich yellow hair, pale skin with no appreciable fur, he could smell her adrenaline through her skin. Fear. Zhegh put up both hands in a sign of non-threat, but her breathing didn’t abate. Then, in his best Galanglic;

“Where is your crew?”

“I don’t know …” followed by a flurry of what Zhegh assumed were curses, ending with “dog”. That much he understood. Dogs were the servile idiot companions of humans. Gahv often told him that they kept them around as a reminder of racial superiority. Zhegh wasn’t too sure about that, but he understood the intonation of the reply.

Gahv leveled his gaze at Zhegh, “I told you, I already interrogated it.”

Zhegh relented, then went to work on the ship’s logs with his electronic miracle worker. Soon the manifest came up, and Zhegh’s portable do-all computer spat out a list of products, half of which were human specific. Cooking utensils, textiles (mostly for Vargr), an assortment of consumer electronics and some perishables with extremely long chemical names.

Gahv was close to outrage, but let his hunter’s mind sooth his troubled brow as he thought of what to do next.

Zhegh looked at him, “Take her in tow?”

Gahv shook his head. “I can’t spare the crew, and all her consoles are in human speak. I don’t want to waste time having you translate every single thing so I can put a skeleton crew on her to bring her in. Too much time, and the repairs would cost a fortune more than this cargo will bring.”

“As you wish, captain. What about the human?”

“Bring it to the hold.”

 

[Blue Ghost]

To the human ear Vargr speak sounded like a mish-mash of sloshed woofs and low grows and controlled toned barks, none of which was intelligible to most humans.

Gavh led Zhegh off the bridge with the human in tow, and by the time they had returned to the hold the rest of the corsair’s crew were handling the more valuable cargo with grav lifts, shoving it through the gang tube where the rest of the crew was stowing it in the corsairs comparatively small hold. When the Corsair’s hold was full, and the word came back that they couldn’t fit anymore, Gahv ordered the operation to stop, and to reboard the ship.

The powerful chemical odor of the human vessel was replaced with the more welcome scents of Gahv’s own crew as he stepped back into the Stalker’s Fang, and ordered the air lock sealed. The gang tube was retracted, and stowed in the ship’s bulkhead. The two ship’s parted, but not before Gahv gave the order to scuttle the Terran ship. Two well placed missiles tore her asunder, and the Evening Star was no more—nothing but particles on the stellar wind.

 

[Blue Ghost]

I've done some minor editing. I have a tendency to type "on" when I mean "no", and "levelled" when I mean "leveled" … "levelled" is pronounced "lev-elled", and it's really annoying. I also did some rephrasing.


*EDIT*
I'm not real happy with this latest installment … I wanted to show more ruthlessness on Gahv's part, but wound up softening him up. I guess subconsciously I didn't want to get in trouble with the powers that be on the forum, but I think I could have injected a bit more violence without going over the top. I may rewrite it, and again, apologies for the typos and raw read. I thought I had edited it before posting.

*2nd EDIT*
I did some massive editing on the first chapter. Again, it's my usual dyslexia conspiring with my natural laziness to think I've created great prose, when it's actually riddled with errors. I did proof read it, and even had MS Word read it back to me, but event then I missed a number of errors. Many apologies. It should read as I intended now. thanks again

Thanks again.

 

[Blue Ghost]

Plumes of black smoke rose like banshees to be scattered in the desert wind. Born of enshrouded flame from various tents and low lying buildings designed to defeat the wind and sand, the visage of destruction was juxtaposed against a blue nitrogen sky with high altitude clouds feathering the stratosphere. All the while, in the background the sleek-serrated form of the yellow and black striped camouflage that was the Stalker’s Fang, sat on the desert floor, her struts half buried in the hardened parched earth.

Gahv, his HEL gun held high and pointing to the sky, was fixated on the hand held scanner presented to him by Kael. Imperial colonies were notoriously eclectic when it came to defenses. Some were virtual fortresses built out on airless worlds, where others, such as this one, were defenseless hamlets that invited anyone to raid.

Gahv didn’t pretend to understand the reasoning of humans, and how their inconsistencies perpetuated a continued naval superiority in terms of quality and size of armed combatants, he never understood. Gahv knew that his hunter’s mind kept him ahead of the scheming humans. Friends one moment, traitorous bringers of retribution the next. Many of his comrades commanding other vessels had fallen to Imperial naval sweeps. One after the other, the images emblazoned on the freeport he called home continued to swell in ranks as one starship captain after another was killed or went missing after an engagement with an Imperial cruiser.

And this foray, on some patch of desert on an equally arid world some distance from the Imperial fringe, for now, was safe for him and his crew to raid at their pleasure. Orbiting the larger of the colonial townships had brought out onlookers. And when no shots were fired or other defenses activated, that’s when Gahv ordered his laser batteries to put the larger buildings to the electric flame.

As the crimson beams seared ozone they sliced into the thin rooves meant to keep sun and other elements off of the good people of this fledgling colony. They were not designed to resist uncounted mega joules of a starship laser, and certainly not a double beam barbettes from two turrets. From the bridge of the Stalker’s Fang, Gahv had watched black human silhouettes scatter in all directions, some holding human cubs as the corsairs lasers slashed and punched into one building after another.

Planetary raids were sometimes a necessity. He preferred intercepting fat treasure filled merchants in deep star-studded black, but colonies, Vargr or human, often had food stuffs. And curse the humans again for being able to make tastier fare than his own galley cooks, whom he had spent extra credits and gold on acquiring and giving them the best provisions to work with he could find.

Once enough tents and buildings were ablaze and belching black smoke, Gahv gave the order to land. The four-hundred ton ship circled the village several times before extending its landing struts and plowing the desert floor until she slowed enough to come to a stop.

Gahv looked at Kael’s portable tactical unit, quietly surveyed the village sensing the various chemicals that constituted the black smoke, stray molecules of which shot away from the main streaming black plume and found their way into the Vargrs’ olfactory senses.

“No cattle, captain. No animals of any kind. Strictly agrarian.”

“On a desert world.” Gahv’s phrasing was a command meant as a question, but without the intonation of asking … it would make him seem weak.

The wind picked up some, the hot breeze pushing against raised pointed ears and fur and washing some of the chemical scent away, only to replace it with the smell of arid soil and rock.

“Some of those structures we torched were greenhouses, or top chambers leading to vats nested underground. It’s human produce, captain. Some of it we can digest, but it’s not meat. Strictly grasses of all sorts.”

Grass for Vargr meant anything that germinated out of the soil. Plainly speaking it wasn’t meat, and the only time Vargr didn’t eat meat was because of some medical condition, typically dealing with the digestive track. Few Vargr kept any produce of any kind on board, or if they did then again it was for medicinal purposes.

Gahv scanned the area with his steely gaze, while some of his squad let their mouths partially open to vent heat from their bodies, Gahv’s muzzle was a solid line with jaw clenched shut. He looked in one direction, glanced at Kael’s tactical readout, then glanced in another direction, seeing humans, some in burnt rags that passed for clothes, clutching to one another as they chanced a fearful look at Gahv and his troop, worrying and wondering what would happen next.

“Agrarian colonies always have animals.” Gahv asserted, as if it was some deep profound truth that only he could establish, and that everyone must acknowledge—all but his closest advisors.

“Some humans don’t eat meat, captain. Some prefer the desert and raising flowers to the open plains. They’re not unheard of. They call themselves communes, or some similar word. They organize themselves around a social idea or concept, and live as they desire.”

“They have no defenses.” Again Gahv was straight to the point, not quite ignoring Kael’s brief, but desiring that he add more to it without having to muster the energy to question his tactical officer.

“Such collections of humanity tend not to believe in warfare … of any kind, captain. They prefer the sedate. Like our kind who prefer daily jobs and spending time in parks. They differ from you and us.”

“Curse this world and these people.” Gahv finally uttered as he again surveyed the visage fire and smoke amidst a waterless landscape, with clusters of humans clutching onto one another in some vain hope that physical touch and the comfort it brought would alleviate the anguish they had suffered.

A fringe world populated by former Imperials hoping to escape the social clutches of Imperial law and taxes, and the protection and harness it brought, only to find themselves subject to Gahv’s whims. Gahv had no use for humans, dead or alive, only the goods they made, and the food that he and his kind could eat. If the Imperium took exception, then that was their prerogative, but it wouldn’t stop Gahv and his rampage through known space, nor make him reconsider an alternative way of existence.

Gahv lived for the hunt. He lived for pillaging. It was part of his every being, and both Vargr and Human on both sides of the great invisible national barrier that separated both species relative domain knew that. This had been the twelfth raid in as many weeks, often Gahv would order attacking two targets within as many hours, which only added to his reputation.

Unknown to him, someone had taken notice of his activities. Gahv had been content at one time to serve as a naval commander in a mainline fleet squadron for a government that no longer existed and that few remembered—as with most things that related to Vargr society. But attacking for the sake of some high potentate who reaped the rewards of wealth and mates grated on Gahv’s mind. The high born pack leaders of many pack worlds and beyond throughout the Extents were no better than their human counterparts they so often railed against to gain political favor and power.

So it was that Gahv raided to his own ends, and shared the wealth with his crew instead of delivering it to the former leader that had been deposed in one of hundreds of military coups across Vargr space. Gahv didn’t know how human society worked, and was continually surprised that the Imperium outlasted any semblance of government his own people could cobble together through ideals and rhetoric, only to have it collapse and be rebuilt on another ideal with another line of political nonsense meant only to make the natives feel better about their efforts, but always ending in disaster. How the humans continued to outpace the Vargr, Gahv would never know.

What was even more baffleing was that a large number Vargr preferred what was often called the stability of human culture. But Gahv saw the same iniquitous distribution of wealth, and literally did not understand how and why there were few human corsairs. What were they called? Pirates? Lawless trash by Gahv’s standards. They pillaged for the sake of it, and then spent their wealth on meaningless passtimes to please their physical senses. Even so, Gahv admired them to a certain degree. They were willing to embrace the basic Vargr instincts. Somewhere back in time the humans must have had similar insights into living as the Vargr. Somewhere. Some way. Some different time.

Again, black columns of smoke enshrouding red hot flames reached for the heavens. There was nothing here.

Gahv handed back Kael his tactical reader. “Let’s go.”

Some twenty minutes later the Stalker’s Fang’s engines thundered to life, then careened skyward as her maneuver drive kicked out massive amounts of thrust to heft four-hundred tons of alloy and crew into orbit and beyond.

 

[Blue Ghost]

Captain David Farber sat in the commissioner’s office with a gaggle of officials, some in military uniform, others in local law enforcement, and even a scout or two, their eyes all locked on his relatively diminutive form. A kind of pale blue for eyes, dark blonde hair that was cut in a functional salad bowl shape for better starship operations, or so he was told. Farber was never a great achiever, which seemed puzzling since he managed to gain a position as first mate on an antiquated Solomani merchant that had seen better days before being sent to the starship graveyard via a couple of high yield missiles.

Kind of like his office on Efate. Oh sure, it was essentially a penthouse suite with bay windows overlooking the cityscape, but the off mayonnaise color of his office walls, the durable furniture designed to withstand the onslaught of a primitive primate and not designed for comfort, coupled with the usual smell of a government office, made the whole affair seem like a session in a high school principle’s office rather than the law enforcement interview that it was meant to be.

Scout commissioner Robert Haswell was sympathetic to Farber and those that had managed to escape with him in the ship’s enclosed air raft. A brilliant scheme of using the spare oxygen strapped and jury rigged to the air raft’s life support. How they managed to get picked up an hour later by a passing freighter that was going to put in for some field repairs, was one for the books. Hoping to be mistaken with debris and keeping the engines off and cool was a stroke of brilliance, but accordingly that was the engineer’s idea, and not mister Farber’s even though he had phrased it as such in his official report. Oh well. Even lady luck smiled on the poorest of starship candidates. Still, Haswell felt that he shouldn’t think of Farber like that. His record as a starship officer was less than sterling. He had had several “near misses” when it came to logging hours and reporting (or not-reporting as the case may be) situations on board vessel that could have led to a fire or serious malfunction, but he had managed to bring most of the crew home, save for the captain and the security team which remained on board in the vain hope of repulsing the boarders.

Still, Farber was competent enough at his job to retain a position with a variety of mid range tonnage vessels that needed an experienced person on the spot. Apparently his forte was as a fill in for a single voyage or series of jumps before the captain could find a serious replacement. Farber, in essence and form due to his spotty record, was what in office speak might be called a “temp” or “temporary employee”. A warm body for a position that needed a permanent fix.

“And then what happened?” Haswell pressed, a dozen pair of eyes and ears waiting for his every word.

“And then we launched. Or separated.” Farber’s tone wasn’t exactly sheepish, but far from confident, feeling as if he were being cross examined for some crime he had committed. He hadn’t. Not ever. He may have made a few mistakes here and there, but he didn’t deserve being put on the spot.

“How did you manage to separate yourself from the ship.”

“Our chief engineer, Alarh Sethay. He’s from Vland.” Farber said with a smile hoping somehow his engineer’s lineage might prove for levity to lighten the mood. It didn’t. “He stayed in a vacc suit with a hose hooked up to the air raft. He just pushed us off. But when he did we started to roll some, like the rest of the debris.”

“What happened then?” Haswell gently pressed, wanting Farber to keep focused and to get the story out as freshly as he could recall it to fill in any gaps in the ship’s automated log.

“A couple hours later the Quin-talla exited jump. We picked up her transponder and double checked to make sure that she was who her transponder said she was before signaling them for help.”

“What about your ship? The Evening Star?”

“Oh, sorry, the dogs blew it up. They hung around for like half an hour or more. We heard gun shots and screams over the tactical channel.” Farber’s tone chilled recalling the audio channeling to his ears all those weeks ago.

“Anything else?”

“I think our captain remained on the bridge. She may have fought back, but I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?”

“We heard shots, then silence, then Vargr talk, then someone asking her something in really bad Galanglic, and then I guess roughing her up. It was hard to tell what was going on simply by listening to the audio.”

“How did you manage not to get fired upon?”

“Like I said, I don’t really know, but Engineer Sethay kept us powerless until they moved off and jumped out. An hour or two later the Quin-talla came in, and we were taken aboard. Under guard at first, but then they let us stay as guests after they heard our story and corroborated it with the ship’s logs.”

“What did they attack you with?” Haswell had already asked the question, but like with all things, trust but verify.

“At first missiles. We managed to gun some of them down, but they were armed to the teeth with two triple turret lasers. The Solees build a tough ship, and that thing could take punishment, but they hit us with several triple shots. First the life support unit, though we had a backup, then the main drives and engineering. But they just kept damaging the mechanics and drives. No serious damage to the actual engineering section. But the power plant did shut down due to an overload or something. That’s when we lost attitudinal control and fire control. The bridge blacked out for a few seconds before the batteries kicked in. That’s when the captain ordered us to abandon ship, but put the security team in the hold while she went to the bridge.”

“Why did she go to the bridge?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some captain ego thing for all I know. She was big on duty.”

“But you went with the rest of the crew.”

“She ordered me to.”

Haswell didn’t press the issue. She probably knew that Farber wouldn’t be any good in a fight, and so tossed the dead weight overboard, so to speak.

There were a few other ancillary questions from some others standing in the commissioner’s office, notably Fleet Captain Roger Tolchin, the gold Imperial sunburst on his shoulder the and the extra braid signifying him as more than a mere starship captain, but a squadron leader.

“Did you get a name of the vessel, mister Farber?”

“A name?”

“A name, like any ship.” Tolchin stated.

“No, the whole thing … it was all black and yellow. I mean there was some lettering on the fuselage, but I couldn’t make it out. It was in some dog language. The whole thing was battle scarred from fore to aft. Laser burns, blast marks … it’s like the whole thing had been in a shootin’ match or something.”

The Commissioner half nodded, “Okay, thank you Mister Farber. You’ve been very informative. We’ll be in contact if we need you again, and the court bailiffs will be in contact if you’re needed to testify.”

“I can go now?”

Haswell feigned a polite smile. “Yeah. You can go.”

Farber rose unceremoniously and exited the old fashioned swinging wooden door – another government cost saving measure in a high tech building filled with AI, life support and other amenities that would make any yacht owner green with envy, but tax dollars were tax dollars, and not to be frivolously spent on things that could be accommodated with cheap versions of whatever they were.

 

[Blue Ghost]

After Farber had exited everyone looked at everyone else and then to commissioner Haswell. “Well, gentlemen? Thoughts?”

IISS Team Leader Larry Graves was the first, “I say we hunt down this stray dog and put him to sleep.”

“I’ll remind you not to use that language in my office nor in my presence. We are all his majesties subjects, and as per his edict for better relations among the races, we will refrain from such abusive language. However right you may be. Anyone else?”

“Larry’s got my vote.” Tolchin stated. “I think I know what ship it is.”

“Care to enlighten the rest of us?” The commissioner was exhausted with not having enough information.

“Loosely translated, the name could mean Jaws of the hunter, or the main tooth of the one who hunts, or, more precisely, ‘Stalker’s Fang’. Commanded by a Captain Kahyvagh Gahv, formerly of the Empire of the Guiding Star Navy.”

“Empire of the guiding Star?” It was Chief Salinger’s turn to sound confused. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It was some petty dictatorship that lasted for a few decades. If boasted an OOB of some thirty six patrol ships, like this one. A few frigates, one or two heavier units purchased from another power before the government was toppled by a coup. As with most things Vargr.”

“And this Captain, what, Gahv? He struck out on his own?”

Tolchin nodded. “This isn’t a big secret, but rogue Vargr captains are almost a necessity for Vargr space. It’s how half their fleet operate, and why we keep sweeping the borders every so often.”

Marshal’s Service Jim Iochona chimed in, “So, what makes this guy so interesting? Vargr raiders are nothing new.”

Tolchin stepped in again, “He somehow manages to keep ahead of our attempts to intercept him.”

The commissioner wasn’t satisfied, “You think Vargr in the Imperial navy have been tipping him off?”

“No, there’s no evidence for that. That, and we checked. Nine times out of ten it’s those you least suspect, and the motivation’s always money. But I don’t think there’s been a breach in security. I just think he plain out thinks us. He keeps on his toes. Doesn’t stay in any one place for very long, unlike many human pirates who like to splurge their wealth on wine and women, Captain Gahv sees his raiding as his way of life. Marrying his wolf borne instincts with starship combat is a deadly mixture.”

“How do we nab him?” Captain Frank Kashlin off of the CVL Lightfoot, a decorated FB pilot and Carrier “Air” Group commander had seen his fare share of anti Vargr raider sweeps, and didn’t mind strafing a yellow and black hull with lasers, or putting a few high yield conventional anti-shipping warheads into her hull.

The commissioner leaned back in his seat, which dutifully squeaked in response to his girth. “I don’t know. We’re just going to have to station units at all possible points of intercept.”

“Commissioner.” Tolchin again.

“What is it Commodore.” Haswell took a jab at the officer’s rank. He knew how Tolchin thought that commodore was something from the days of when naval officers wore garish feathered uniforms with exaggerated epaulets and braids.

Tolchin relented and half smiled at the jest, “I think whoever owned that ship had the right idea, but not enough fire power to pull it off.”

“I’m not following.”

“I think the captain thought she could take on the crew. She thought she was dealing with some two-bit thugs who had managed to get their hands on a starship and crew it. But, based on this, both logs and report, we’re dealing with a fully trained ex-military, or rather active military fully armed ship that doesn’t know, or wish, that the war is over.”

The commissioner sighed. “Are you going to ask me to ask the local noble, or the subsector duke, to muster a strike force to go into the Extents? Because your own Imperial boys aren’t going to disturb those troubled waters.”

“A local navy with a far reach may be the thing. I can think of few other options.”

It was Commander Larash Ahrnol’s turn to speak up. Tall , thin, gaunt, and somewhat elegant like his Vilani heritage was known for, his tone was less pointed, less hostile, and more mitigating. “Can we not pressure local Vargr governments into a cooperative joint task force?”

Haswell saw the fire in Tolchin’s eyes, and waved him back as he let his voice step in over Tolchin’s attempted rebuttal, “Get serious, will you, commander? Half their naval forces, military in general, are on the take, and those that aren’t would side with this captain Gahv. If not for a chance to take on and plunder our task force, then simply out of spite to stick it to us. You want that?”

But Ahrno’s tone was unrelenting, “I think you mischaracterize all of them. There are Vargr who desire to cooperate with us in order to put down lawlessness in their own space.”

The commissioner relented, and let Tolchin have his say. “Commander, there are ‘good Vargr’, yes, but this Captain Gahv and his ship are out for blood. And nothing galvanizes a war-pack like a blood lust under a leader who has proven he can take on the humans and beat them time and again. That’s the danger!”

“But he’s spared people… he hasn’t devastated for the sake of it.”

“That’s his one saving grace, commander. But it’s also his key strength which could draw others to his side. His reputation of not killing everyone will show that he’s a ‘humanitarian’, when in fact he’s a cold blooded killer that only kills when he needs to or when it suits him. When more word of his exploits gets into the ears of mainline Vargr units, we could have a full scale war on our hands. That’s why we need to go in alone, in my opinion. If you can find trustworthy Vargr naval units willing to help, then I’ll let them to your squadron, but not to my fleet.”

And there was the standoff witnessed by a dozen high ranking Imperial officials between an Imperial of mixed blood and pure blooded Vilani who believed that cooperation was a better alternative.

Haswell had to say something less things get more tense or out of control. “Gentlemen, I want alternative plans. The longer we wait the more damage this Captain Gahv does. No doubt there are going to be Vargr who will flock to his call, if he has one. The, pardon the pun, lone-wolf type is a lone-wolf for a reason, and he may not desire a following. Regardless, we need to find a pattern in his attacks, and formulate a plan on how to intercept him and bring him down.” Haswell exhaled a well deserved sigh. “Dismissed!”

Haswell squeakily turned his chair to the large bay windows over looking Efate’s startown, watching distant sleek shaped metal containers riding on blue hot flames amidst the usual traffic of grav vehicles.

All left, but Tolchin.

“Jake.” Tolchin said, “I’ve orders to ship out tonight. I won’t have time to come back tomorrow with a battle plan. I want a clear directive. If I run into that S-O-B out there, what do you want me to do?”

Haswell played with an old fashioned pencil. Twirling it in one hand, and then gently pounding its eraser portion on a note pad before looking over his shoulder and giving Haswell the “you know me” look. “Use your common sense.” Haswell grinned and turned back to the evening visage of traffic silhouetted against a fiery orange setting sun.

 

[Blue Ghost]

The Crystal Dragon lazily orbited the ice covered spherical geological store house on the fringe of the system. Too cold for normal miners, though many a belter had chanced a claim, only to be driven off by distance and lack of any real subterranean treasure that could be turned for quick cash. The planet was strictly an industrial storehouse for captains of industry to exploit, not for simple quick-rich belters looking for precious metals and gemstones ready to be cut. Still, it served as a hideout for many a belter on the skirts of the law, and wanting some place to put up a “no vacancy” sign for anyone looking to track them down.

The Crystal Dragon was a Dragon Class SDB, leased by some megacorporation to a well known mercenary outfit that specialized in SAR and wolf-hunting operations. Often on the outskirts of the Extents the two went hand in hand as humans starry eyed with the prospect of hunting or running with wild Vargr had claimed way too many victims to count. Vargr in the Imperium tended to be more civilized, for lack of a better term, but no less cunning, no less capable of breaking the law, though understood the consequences of getting out of line in Imperial space.

The extents were a different story, as the mercurial nature of Vargr society and governments both had a turnover rate that would put most fly by night insurance or fast food corporations within the Imperium or Solomani sphere to shame.

The Crystal Dragon entered the demarcated barrier between faint sunlight and black shadow. The red iron color situated next to yellow and blue told of frozen iron and nitrogen, with a tinge of sulfur. A cursory scan showed that no sizeable crystals could be found here, but standard iron ore and a smattering of other elements might bring a small profit to an automated outfit—if they could get here, or if any company would authorize it.

Captain Samuel Delany sat in the central command chair, a mixture of plush and functionality as the ship’s AG system pulled on his being. The command chair neither induced unwanted sleep nor kept the sitter awake and alert by being uncomfortable. It was a strange mix of the perfect chair that somehow had become with the Dragon class, and was performing its function as the Crystal Dragon slipped into the shadowy night of the planet for half an hour.

Rogue corsairs were not unknown, but Delany’s employer was convinced that it was a scout ship gone rogue by use of its superior power plant processing for raw-“unrefined” fuel to strike terror into the shipping lanes, and had hired Delany and his team to deal with the matter.

Delany had faith in the Dragon Class. It weighed in about the same as a Vargr built corsair, but carried a battery of guided ordinance, with a few beam weapons to put up a counter punch against whatever missiles the Vargr threw at them.

But, this long out in space and given the number of raids she was responsible for, the Vargr must have either spent her missiles, or was about to, depending on the captain’s tactics. The fact that he had been roaming space for years without being taken in by forces on either side of the geo-political barrier, astounded Delany.

Normally a Vargr captain gone rogue would have been rounded up within months. Sometimes, though rarely, one went unchecked for a few years. That happened in anyone’s space; Imperium, Zho, Terran, Aslan, even Hiver from what he understood (though Hiver piracy was so rare as to be unheard of). Delany had only gotten what the navy was willing to release to the public. A Corsair of some unpronounceable class name had went on a virtual rampage through the triumvirate area of where Zhodani and Imperial space met the unbridled frontier of Vargr space, and beyond. Whoever this Captain Gahv was, he wasn’t satisfied with staying in any one area for any length of time, and somehow his crew were tolerating the extended deployment. Delany didn’t know much about Vargr psychology, but if he were part of a human pirate crew (which Vargr also joined with the same regularity), then he would either want out or demand shore leave of some kind. But, that assumed they had been in space the entire time, which, odds were, was not the case.

Pound for pound the Dragon class was the near equivalent of any Vargr built ship of the same tonnage. And given that the Dragon class was specifically designed for intercept and long range as well as what was some times termed as “littoral space” patrol, he couldn’t imagine a lone Vargr outlaw being able too sustain his engines, his power plant, much less his crew or even rudimentary things like lights, for very long.

But, then again, he didn’t know all of what there was to know. This ship may have been on some special mission, maybe was gaining support from sympathetic Vargr throughout Imperial and Vargr space. It was doubtful there were any true sympathizers in Zho space, given how the Zhodani ran their society. And if there were, then the Zhos would just yank the information from who was suspected of helping Captain Gahv via a quick mind scan, and then act on that intelligence.

No, this Captain Gahv, whoever he was or whatever he was, kept ahead of the competition. Delany wondered if he might not be a human reputed as a Vargr. Such instances were rare but known to have happened; a lone human starship veteran commanding a boat load of Vargr was the fantasy of many a human, but the simple truth was that it had happened, though it always ended badly where corsair crews were concerned. Human officers had the edge that they were human and tended to put a little fright into the dogs by virtue of being human. But once one of the Vargr wanted to challenge the human’s authority, then the rest of the pack helped him in taking down whatever human was in charge.

Freighter mutinies weren’t unknown, though rare. Mutinies on board Corsairs happened with some regularity, which made this Captain Gahv all that more extraordinary. How many years had he been out in space? Apparently he had come from some region more coreward than the usual flotsam and jetsam of Vargr society on the Imperial frontier. Again, was he a human? Maybe he was a Zho? A Zho noble with exceptional psionic ability gone rogue, and flaying the mind of any dissenting Vargr crew? That made more sense than anything else, even though Delany reminded himself that it was pure speculation, and not to fall in love with his own theories. Still, it might explain how Gahv knew about Imperial starship tactics and fleet distribution, or so he theorized since Captain Gahv seemed to maintain an edge and keep abreast of the people after him.

Delany grunted in amusing satisfaction, happy with his theory, but curious about how he could go about proving it.

The crescent of the planet that filled the inset ballistic grade windows had been gone for several minutes once the Crystal Dragon entered its shadow. Technically it was night time, and Delany bemused whether he should end his shift early to appease the astral gods of planets, space and interstellar travel. He internally laughed. Someday he would write a children’s book of space fairy stories. He might include his deployment in trying to track down the Stalker’s Fang as one of them.

 

[Blue Ghost]

“Captain, sensors just picked up a jump signature.”

Delany snapped out of his whimsical thoughts and became focused like a laser. “Coming or going?” An academic question since they would have picked up anyone nearby.

“Someone exiting jump, captain.”

“Bearing and distance?”

The sensor ops officer shook his head, “I can’t get a clear bead on him, captain. The planet’s obscuring our sensors, and we don’t have an L-O-S for a scan of any kind. I’m just reading the usual disturbance with a jump.”

Delany got up and strode over to the sensor station to look over the young man’s shoulder. “Mass?”

“Not enough to get any kind of tonnage on her. It’s not a capital ship nor a major liner of any kind. It’s too small or too distant. My guess is that it’s a scout. The size of the disturbance correlates with something in the one-hundred ton range.”

Delany didn’t say anything. “Can you get a trace on the exit point, and see where it’s headed?”

Sometimes, not always, jump signatures had a vector to them related to the vessel’s direction of travel. Like a splash on a pool of water reacting to a stone tossed into a lake.

“I’ll try, captain. There’s barely enough there.” The sensor ops officer was ex-navy. In his early thirties he was well trained beyond being a mere traffic controller, and had intimate knowledge of what a ship’s sensor and scanner could do, and what it couldn’t. And he knew all the tricks of how to get the same kind of readings from a major ship of the line sensor suite without having to overload or hack the actual hardware. Even so the Dragon Class had limitations, and no expertise in any field could compensate for a lack of the right tools needed. Still, the officer’s fingers were flying over the console, hitting one series of buttons and controls after the next when he didn’t get the desired output on the screen.

All Delany could do was watch his hand picked crewman do his magic and not question his ability until it was time to give up … or if the desired result was forthcoming.

“There.” The officer finally said. “Vectoring a course parallel to planet’s natural orbit. At this distance I can’t get much, but from this disturbance here, and this plume of energy, it looks like whatever it is turned the moments it exited jump, and is making a b-line for our planet.”

Kayle Smith, the ship’s older executive officer and Delany’s long time friend since when they first created their private security firm, came over and stood next to Delany. “Contact?”

“Mmm…” Delany grumbled, “Contact with something.” Then to his officer, “He is scanning?”

“I’m picking up some residual radiation from the planet’s magnetic field that’s vectored from that contact.”

Delany digested the information, but it was Kayle who stated the obvious, “I doubt they know we’re here, whoever it is.”

Delany was more jaundiced, “Stranger things have happened. And we don’t have an exact contact, just an exit point.” Then again to his sensor ops officer, “Can we correlate the scanning radiation to get a fix on his position?”

“Sorry captain, I can try a few things, but the simple fact is that this gear on this rig isn’t that sensitive. She’s a rebuilt surplus unit—meaning they took the good stuff and swapped it out with regular civvie junk. If we were a cruiser or something, we might get a fix, otherwise …”

Delany wanted to reply with an “unacceptable”, but instead was mentally hitting himself for not having the ship thoroughly checked out before launch. System defense boats were just that. Something like an old coastal or river monitor—a floating platform with some guns. Only the Dragon class was designed for pursuit and deep strikes if needed. In fact her primary selling point to local navies was that she was designed as an ambush unit. She was meant to lay in wait with a squadron, and then leap out from cover of deep in some ocean or thick atmosphere onto some enemy vessel. And now here Delany was with such a vessel with all the hardware save a proper set of electronic eyes and ears.

“Do what you can.” Delany relented. Then to his pilot, “Rig for jump. Let’s get out of here before I regret anything.”

“Captain, lower power emission flashing our hull. I think something’s locked onto us.”

“Full power, get us out of here!” Delany ran back to his command chair

 

[Blue Ghost]

Delany felt himself sink in his command chair as the Crystal Dragon’s engines silently roared in the airlessness of space. Even so the rumble could still be felt and, in this way, heard as the Dragon class SDB kicked out joules of thrust to accelerate four-hundred tons of steel and exotic alloy.

The numbers next to the Greek letter alpha whirred as the ship’s theta adjusted relative to the planet. Similarly the omega value raced upwards, and the computer projected a conic section flight path away from the planet surface, almost accelerating into a polar orbit.

Delany felt the air getting thinner and whipped his head around to make sure everyone was donning or had their vacc suit helmet on before he put his on and locked it in place. Once he felt the lock take hold and the suit’s micro fans whir recycled air in his face, he went ahead and let the computer know that it was okay to evacuate the rest of the atmosphere—an emergency precaution in case of a hull breach to prevent everything and everyone getting convulsed in an explosive decompression event.

“Captain, it’s military grade, whatever or whoever they are.”

Delany didn’t have time to retort or comment with a quip, instead he sat in his chair watching the familiar white light dim to be replaced with a bright indigo blue. The experts insisted that during stress or combat situations blue made things stand out better, and psychologically was calming. Delany always questioned the logic and the psychologists who did those studies. But, nevertheless, lime green paths, red course corrections, sky blue grids against deep blue fields did seem more visible. Whether they were soothing or not had yet to be seen.

If they could get a lock at BVR, or “beyond visual range”, then it wasn’t a survey ship, not a scout ship, and certainly not a merchant. That ship, whoever they were, had caution and paranoia built into her sensor suite. Another vital psychology to surviving combat. That’s when Delany found himself cursing the Crystal Dragon and his mysterious employer who offered a boat load of cash to take down some pirate dog that had gotten its paws on a surplus ship. Even so, whoever he was, had put Delany on edge.

“Weapons, stand by to push out ordinance. We’ll sneaker drop, set them out in an array, and have them go active once the target’s in range.”

No more speculating. Locking onto him over the horizon again meant whoever they were meant business.

“Ops, do we know who it is? Any transponder?”

“Negative, captain. But one thing’s for sure, those are corsair scanners. Wave-lengths and amplitude match a known Vargr scanner variant.”

“Spare me the schematics, ops. Tell me later if we survive.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

Weapons; “Captain, tubes in launch position. We can push them out any time.”

“Launch.” Delany commanded.

Outside black capped multipurpose anti-shipping missiles were pushed out via slow operation of the tube ejector—a device rarely used unless in this circumstance or if a missile, for whatever reason, could not be brought back into the carousel. They lingered at the same relative velocity, were rotated via wire control, and finally cut loose as the Crystal Dragon continued to accelerate.

Delany only hoped that splurging on the extra “stealthy” ordinance would be worth the price. He didn’t think he would have to use low profile missiles, but it never hurt to have too many advantages. Delany took the liberty of cracking his knuckles through his suits gauntlets, then blew air from his cheeks. Unlike other tacticians he was not the cool headed type. He was the “pray this works” type as he fought back perspiration and nerves, feeling butterflies flutter in his gut.

It was a worthy trick. It had worked in the past. It was a proven tactic. As every pirate or would be marauder of the main discovered the hard way.

“I have a contact, sir. I’ll put it up on your screen.”

The faint sharp edged and pointed nose of a distant contact that had scanner superiority, and was effectively a ghost, had suddenly materialized. It was almost too good to be true. And normally the contact was a bit smaller, but all corsairs he had known or had encountered usually had a little extra punch in their main drives to give them extra acceleration. Well, this time it wasn’t going to help, because closing this fast only meant that the missiles would go active that much sooner.

But they hadn’t. And Delany could see the target. But, if he had visual contact, then the missiles should have gone active minutes ago before an image appeared on any of the ship’s sensors. What was going on? That’s when he saw the mass reading in the kilograms.

Delany’s eyes went wide, “It’s a trick! Ops, that’s a decoy! Weapons, have the birds go wild! Let them lock onto anything as long as it’s not…”

Delany’s words were cut short as the first three crimson beams slashed into the bridge, cutting a trinary molten scar across the Crystal Dragon’s topside, while the Stalker’s Fang secondary laser turret merely danced on her stern engineering plates, splaying bright red focused light in several dozen directions, like a laser flash gone wrong.

Two low yield missiles struck her amidships, and severed the last of the redundancy circuits that connected the bridge with engineering and the rest of the ship.

Though in her death throes, and with the captain either dead or unconscious, the weapons’ officer’s last act was to cycle the remaining launch tubes, and defiantly spit at the Stalker’s Fang with a two missile salvo, knowing that the corsair couldn’t switch her lasers to CIWS mode because they had already discharged.

The first slammed into the Stalker’s hold, the second speared into the starboard thrust drive unit, and erupted in a fury of chemical explosive, rupturing the entire unit and damaging the power plant, forcing her to vent plasma.

On the bridge of the Stalker’s Fang the lights fluttered and the instruments were on the verge of winking out, as they too fought for every amp of electricity that was available.

Gahv growled, as if somehow he could intimidate inanimate machinery and electronics into working with a display of anger and fury. But, through the competence of his engineering crew, and not his display of authority, relative normalcy returned to the dark recesses of the bridge, again only lit by the instruments and the computer graphic of an Imperial patrol craft on the verge of falling apart, as so many of the ships he had attacked in the past.

Gahv regained his cool. Studied the target for a few more seconds, then, “Number one and number two laser batteries, fire.”

Both triple beamed turrets clawed again with high energy ferocity, leaving six red glowing trails of where the Stalker’s Fang had raked the system defense boat.

Gahv studied the ship for a few more minutes. The humans had fallen for an old tactic they themselves had developed, and that Gahv himself employed on occasion. Using a mockup of the ship as a visual decoy was a gamble, but since the Imperial ship, one designed for combat, hadn’t picked them up, or rather hadn’t locked onto them using the planet’s various fields to do so, then they weren’t using their full potential, and were relying on hunter’s instincts alone. Not a bad choice, unless you were going up against someone who knew all about hunter’s instincts.

Regardless, they fell for the decoy, chanced a launch, again a treacherously clever technique of quietly pushing out missiles, and letting them go active once the programmed target was in range. That was a new one for Gahv. But his own tactic had countered it due to circumstance. Had luck actually played a role this time? If the human hadn’t been a hired gun, but an actual Imperial naval vessel … Gahv thought it curious, and did not know how to evaluate this bit of strategic luck.

“Board her, captain?”

Gahv stood on the bridge, steely eyed as he considered the Imperial ship drifting and again tumbling as so many had in the past.

“Put two more missiles into her, and stand by to land. Damage control, we’ll be landing for refueling and repair. Stay inside until then. Then you can affect repairs. Helm, land us on this planet’s day side.”

Kael spoke up, “An eighteen hour rotational period, captain. It should be enough to allow us to affect repairs.”

“Fuel.” Gahv announced making a demand.

“There’s ice of various forms. Sensors show it has trace elements of rare earths and noble gases. Usable by our drives. Low risk of damage, and no misjumps, though I would recommend we put in for a software upgrade and overhaul at some point, captain.”

But Gahv didn’t reply. He merely stood there with his hands on the console, his fangs bare, but with no noise coming out of his mouth. Whether he was satisfied or not, no one knew, but he took his seat in the command chair, silent to a fault.

 

[Blue Ghost]

Had the computer read back some of the chapters, and went back and did some minor editing. I hope it helped.

 

[Blue Ghost]

Fleet Captain Tolchin went over the latest data burst, scrolling through the report of another ship fallen to Captain Gahv’s rampage. The usual, a ship with all hands lost. Apparently there was a feint of some kind. A decoy that caught the Crystal Dragon’s captain and crew off guard. Tolchin didn’t hold up much with private security or mercenaries. Security of the realm was a public trust, not a thing for hirelings of any stripe, no matter their background. The man who kills wantonly for pay was on the same level as the woman who offered love for the same fee, and Tolchin held with neither career path.

True, some mercenaries were as good as professional government military, but that had to break or bend at some point. With no oversight, no public scrutiny, no leash or other mechanism to reign them in, they were essentially hired killers let to do a job as they saw fit, and that’s how this captain Delany, subcontracted by a Ling subsidiary, was killed. Tolchin continued stoically with the report, while outside his three ship formation pierced bilious white clouds in a blue sky. The light gray shadows and shafts of brilliant gold light raced over the translucent canopy covering the bridge. Meant to be a combative edge to give pilot, captain and bridge crew in general a more visible field of view and thereby an advantage when it came to combat and maneuvering, it was in fact extremely picturesque, though sometimes annoying as Tolchin covered the pad with his left hand to shield if from sky and shadow as he held it with his right.

According to the Crystal Dragon’s log they had pushed out four low profile anti-shipping missiles, which apparently were to go active once they picked up the right kind of target. Then the sensor’s picked up an object, which by the looks of it, had been thrown out some time after Captain Gahv had exited jump. Tolchin figured Gahv was probably concerned that he had exited jump close to a far orbiting body, and just wanted to make sure that no one was there. Instead what he found out was a trap being laid for him. The thing that got Tolchin was how did Ling Standard or their hired hand Delany know that Gahv was going to be there?

Well, it was a curiosity, but one more for a strategic analyst, which was part of his job, but his more immediate concern was patrolling the space lanes. And apparently fleet captains were being commissioned by the dozens to form flotillas as a response to Gahv.

Tolchin read on, discovering that Delany had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book—and not a very sophisticated one either. Well, not the oldest, and not all that unsophisticated, but one of the oldest and not all that complex. He was probably so hopped up on his own adrenaline that he and his crew jumped at the first contact they found, which apparently is exactly what happened, and they paid the ultimate price for it. The log showed his weapons’ officer getting a pair of active missiles out of the tubes. Whether they found their target or not was anybody’s guess, though telemetry showed they had detonated after traversing a distance that was coincidental with the corsair’s position. But apparently the ship’s sensors had gone out with the first salvo.

So, Gahv’s ship might or might not be wounded, so to speak. Even so it would take more than a couple of missiles to bring down a corsair. But that was the real question. Some of the ships that came out of Vargr dockyards were as rickety as they could get, while others were virtual tanks that could withstand punishment beyond belief, but usually had some other shortcoming.

Tolchin had it in the back of his mind that Gahv had been roaming or hunting the space lanes for over a year, and had done so without getting caught. That meant he was probably getting help from some one. Odds were he was just getting a free ticket from a number of Vargr ports that recognized him, and probably some free ports outside Imperial and Zho space.

But it wasn’t quite that simple. He may have earned a reputation and following, but then why was he still a lone wolf—so to speak. Vargr were big on whoever wanted to prove themselves the top dog. Lots of fisticuffs, growling, baring of fangs, that sort of thing, just like their more primitive cousins Terran wolves and canines. Even so, you could be the top dog through sheer will, but even Vargr valued technical and scientific know how. It is, after all, how they maintained various star fleets and political hubs, however passing.

The canopy went gray and sheets of water slapped against the hull in the form of dense precipitation, the would be pitter patter of gentle spring rains was a torrent at high mach. Like taking an air raft through an automated wash at full acceleration. It lasted for some minutes before the flotilla exited the thunder head and back into clear skies with low lying clouds.

Gahv didn’t sound like your typical Vargr raider. One who “lawfully” went attacking Imperial or Vargr shipping in the name of the hunt and whatever political rhetoric was popular at the time. Vargr were no worse than humans, and quite the same in many things other than sharing a common home world, but Tolchin, in spite of having a couple of Vargr crew and two marines who were also wolves (dogs being the racist term given the context) simply didn’t trust their tendency to flock from one cause to the next simply because one leader could bare more fang, growl with more intimidation, or, quite literally, prove their physical prowess in a dog-fight. But if Gahv had those traits, then why didn’t he have a fleet? Unless he didn’t feel the need for one.

Tolchin decided that Gahv was a most unusual Vargr corsair captain. One who was brazen and cautious both in his attacks, and had the tactical wizardry to win and the strategic savvy to stay out of harm’s way by out maneuvering attempts to intercept him.

“Captain.” It was Faorsh, the Vargr communication’s officer who had just come on shift in the last few minutes.

Tolchin looked up at him briefly, “What is it, ensign.”

“Flash traffic from the subsector admiral. It’s an update on that rogue corsair.”

“Go ahead and put it on the net. I’ll grab it here.” Within moments Tolchin was looking at a computer schematic of the four sectors that made up the tri-space region; Ziafrplians (however it was pronounced, Tolchin bemused), the infamous Gvurrdon (what Tolchin often referred to as Pirate or dog central), Foreven, and the Marches, where it seemed like most political tension and other things took place.

A three-dimensional schematic with crossed sabers showing where Gahv had raided or engaged in combat, and a path outlaying his course from system to system. Then, following that, a projected course that the admiralties AI had come up with. A “most likely” course or path set for Captain Gahv. Tolchin sighed, an unusual habit for him since he usually kept his disappointment to himself, but this time the boys, or computers rather, back on Regina or Efate had outdone themselves by trying to predict Gahv’s movements. And by outdoing Tolchin meant putting both electronic feet in their collective mouths.

AI was just that. Computers, no matter how many conversations he had with one, still didn’t have the right combination of “if then” statements in their electronic heads to get a sense of what biological life was doing. The admirals and other tactical wizards tried coming up with a scheme to track down Gahv, but it was all based on logic; where he could get supplies, where he could get crew, where he could get stores, where he could get safe harbor, where he could affect repairs, and the most likely outcome of those decisions. It all made sense. And, Gahv was logical enough to possibly take some of those options, but Tolchin concluded that Gahv knew how the human mind worked, and was using his Vargr’s intuition and cunning to use human thinking against them.

Tolchin put down the pad momentarily, stared out at the brilliant sun and clouds before him as his flotilla continued their relative low level patrol, and had come to a realization. Tolchin tried calling up the dossier on Gahv. Again, things were sketchy, the navy and polity he served in no longer existed, and records going that far back and that deep into Vargr space were hard to come by, and if you could get them then they were questionable at best. But it did show him as being favored and one of the more successful captains. It didn’t list all of what he commanded, and Tolchin wondered about the list of engagements, but if half of what he was looking was true, then Gahv was a force to be reckoned with.

As for Efate’s strategic AI wizardry, well, as far as he was concerned they might as well be throwing darts at a dart board.

“Ensign.” He said to Faorsh, “Acknowledge that I’ve got the latest intel, but tell command that I disagree with the conclusions therein. Tell them that we’re moving outside Imperial space, and are moving to intercept. Then signal birds two and three, and tell them that were going to be jumping out of Imperial space.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Faorsh dutifully replied, then in the background Tolchin could hear the ensign repeating the message with the usual officialities required for fleet communications. There were one or two wary glances at him, but Tolchin ignored it. He had an idea of what to do, and where to go. And it had nothing to do with whatever group of minds, electronic or biological, the Imperial Navy could muster.

Gahv didn’t care about charisma, just how to show it, and maintain control. He had no need of followers, just a clear objective, and raiding was in his blood. If that was the case, and it was, then Tolchin knew exactly what kind of captain he was, and how to bring him down.

 

[Blue Ghost]

Zhegh’s fur was thinning. He had more gray and white strands than when he was a new recruit going through the High Lord’s naval academy. Even so, even with aged eyes, it didn’t take a genius to see that the starboard drive had been virtually destroyed. Virtually, because the intake and exhaust were still intact, but the plasma coil and whole high-energy drive-train that spun up energy so that it’s angular velocity could be kicked aft to produce thrust, had been melted and torn asunder, with whole sections vaporized to leave a gaping hold of melted alloy.

“Fix it.” Gahv ordered.

Zhegh was leaned over inside the breach that was the starboard drive, looked over his shoulder at his commanding officer, cocked his head slightly before pushing himself from the exploded maw, and looked his captain squarely in the eye.

“No offense, captain, but the unit’s been completely destroyed. I’m sure you can see that. I couldn’t get this working in a life time. No one can. It needs to be replaced.”

The ship was air tight once again. Patches welded to her exterior hull and interior spaces were checked against the computer’s atmospheric routine. Air was still escaping through the spaces within the maze of tightly fitted conduit, wiring, pipes and vents that constituted the corsair’s life support, control systems, and just her overall mechanics, but it was within acceptable tolerances—provided they not keep her flying like this permanently.

Zhegh explained, “Even if I had a foundry and fabrication shop to smelt new parts, the working apparatus, the high energy coils and all the other pieces that have high super-heat tolerances, are made in special factories designed to create them. The work shop here in engineering can make small parts and patch the hull, but this is beyond catastrophic. If it were a different design, then it might have blown up altogether. Thankfully our former High Lord had the good sense to invest in rugged engines. It’s why we’re still flying and didn’t get caught up in the civil war all those years ago. But a direct hit is a direct hit, and this engine is no more.”

Zhegh let that sink in. If Gahv wanted to express his cool temper by ruthlessly punishing or even killing him, then there was nothing he could do about it. Just as there was nothing he could do about the starboard drive. It was nothing but a hunk of melted and exploded metal.

Gahv stared at the engine. He hadn’t foreseen this.

“Captain,” Zhegh continued, “I recommend we limp back to where we came from, put in at a freeport somewhere, and with all the treasure you’ve amassed, simply replace this unit. In fact have the entire ship overhauled, stem to stern.”

Zhegh wasn’t sure if he was getting through. Gahv seemed to be in a stoic state staring at the destroyed unit. Happy? Sad? Angry? Zhegh couldn’t tell.

Kael stepped into the work space behind main engineering where Gahv, Zhegh and Zhegh’s two mates were waiting for Gahv to say something.

“Captain,” Kael began, “the hold checks out, but the fuel tanks were breached, and we lost a lot of fuel.”

“You said this world’s ice was rated for our drives.”

“Aye, sir, but it’s going to take some time. We can do it, but I wanted to let the engineer know that a lot of the stuff has magnetic ore in it. Mostly iron. Our power plant can take the chemistry. Sulfur, iron, cobalt, whatever is in it, but the magnetism might play havoc with our power plant. And possibly our jump drive if we aren’t extra careful.”

Gahv didn’t reply. He hadn’t foreseen this, and felt an unmitigated rage developing within. How had this happened? He had point defense programmed into his laser barbette, but, he recalled with rage, the cycle time for the lasers to recharge was longer than the missile’s flight time. Even the most ardent anti-missile screen, with no power, was simply ineffective against a well timed launch.

Gahv turned with a snarl. Kael’s eyes widened before he cowed his ears and lowered his gaze. “Get a team to start loading planetary ice into the tanks, and double check the seals.”

“Aye, captain.” Kael quickly left the cramped space and into the lower deck calling for available hands.

Gahv turned back to Zhegh, “We need to make it back to our home territory.”

“If we don’t engage any more vessels, then we should be able to reach home.” Zhegh flatly stated without any regard to Gahv’s mood. Zhegh could work miracles when needed, but even he couldn’t raise the dead, starship engines included.

“I’ll be on the bridge.” Gahv asserted, then left.

Outside a group of a half dozen Vargr in battered and patchwork space suits left the starboard air lock, and silently descended the ladder to the essentially airless light gravity glittering snow covered landscape, with a portable pump that was the size of a small file cabinet. Hooking up hoses to the Stalker’s Fang’s underside to the pump, and working in the strangely red, yellow stained blue nitrogen snow, they began the laborious process of sucking up frozen crystals that would act as a fuel substitute until they got home, or to another world where they could refuel properly.

Kael looked around at the mountains encircling the battered yellow and black ship. All beyond was black with dim points of light against a velvety black. He could hear his own breathing, his own heart beat, and his tongue rubbing over his teeth as he took the opportunity to yawn and relax now that he was outside Gahv’s sphere of influence inside his vacc suit. How he wanted to go back to his home, to see the green fields where he spent his youth, and feel the summer breezes again. The place where he came of age before joining the High Lord’s navy.

Recycled air, frozen meat cooked in a starship’s convection oven, recycled water … it was no life for him. And he would have quit a long time ago had it not been for the treasure rewarded. After this, especially since the High Lord’s realm was no more (replaced by some high-minded sounding political name) , he would go home, stake out a place along a lake or river side, spend the rest of his days enjoying the forest and coastal scents.

Space was space. Grim, black, alien, few places to run, and nothing to smell. He was a dedicated spacer, much like any human or other alien in known space, but space was not his native habitat, and how he longed for the open air spaces that seemed to beckon him.

The Stalker’s Fang had been a fine ship, but a year out without good support from any tenders or fully equipped military bases, and only corsair or pirate freeholds to do whatever maintenance needed to be done, had aged the vessel. She had never been new when Kael was first assigned to her, but he recalled her exterior being more pristine than her faded yellow and black camouflage scheme that had been pitted by meteors and scarred by laser fire and now missile impacts. The black streaks radiating out from the impact points, partially covered by square patches hastily welded over them, were another scar on a vessel that had escaped more than one no-win situation.
For that Kael was grateful. Gahv had proven to be a competent corsair captain, but he had ignored all offers of aid and assistance unless it benefitted himself and the ship somehow. He was bigger and stronger than most Vargr, and had little use for the usual flashing of fangs and perpetual growls and barks that other captains so often employed to get the message across that they were the pack leaders. Gahv was somehow strangely quiet in that regard, but somehow many times as fearsome for that very trait.

Kael turned to the dim star in the distance. It’s white flame cast a dim white light across the landscape, and added to the mysterious and almost frightening feel of the world. Cold, distant, covered in strange frozen crystals and a variety of blue, grays and yellows to Kael’s eyes and that of the rest of the crew, it was a ghost world. There were no forests, no water that he could see, no plants of any kind, just minerals and more minerals, some with strange qualities, others with even stranger qualities. But all of it dead or inanimate. It was the kind of place one expected to find a dead miner in his pressure tent, or the skeletal remains of one who had struck out to find riches, but instead died of starvation or a lack of air—alone and with no friends except the gems and rare earths he had extracted. Wealth unspent.

Kael could appreciate the strangeness of far flung worlds. Their visuals were interesting enough, but the ice could not be melted and drunk—at least not without high energy conversion and the technology to perform the such—nor could one even hope to bring seeds for herbs and flora to create a paradise, as he often desired to do or dreamt of while in his cot.

Well, only a month or two more of traversing vacuum, and they would be in friendlier stars. At that point Kael would resign. The thought of it made his tail twitch with happy ideas of creating the ideal homestead. Perhaps even sire some pups. The good life. And with that thought the ends of his mouth curled upwards.

 

[Blue Ghost]

The port engine sputtered as it was brought back to life. After several hours of gathering every last bit of loose crystal, and even quite literally chipping away with hand axes and picks at hardened super cooled formations to gain more, the Stalker’s Fan was fully laden with fuel. Strange, exotically magnetic, and otherwise unrefined, the fuel otherwise topped her tanks. And with some coaxing and careful watching of gauges and controls, the Stalker’s Fang grew an appetite for the scientifically magical elixir that brought her new life.

The port engine whine and protested as its induction coils choked and coughed on the chemical and magnetic impurities, but plasma was plasma (mostly at least), and eventually super heated induction won out over all. The port engine was brought to life, and the grav drive pushed against the world’s one-fifth-gee pull, and the Stalker’s Fang was silently thundering over the planet’s mountains, valleys and craters before rocketing beyond orbit.

Gahv sat in his command chair. Again the bridge was a black morass populated by illumination from the various screens and read outs. Some Vargr preferred a fully lit bridge, others preferred the dim glow of gray lighting (which to humans was some kind of color that no Vargr had ever seen), but Gahv preferred no lights. It heightened the visual acuity of all the displays and readouts. Another advantage that had won him engagement after engagement.

And even though the starboard engine was no more, the ship ran just as it had before, only on paper she was not as quick as she had been before the attack. Even so Gahv sensed no real loss in performance, but the message of a destroyed engine, and his chief engineer telling him that it was irreparable had outraged him. Only unlike other Vargr he hadn’t expressed his wrath, merely let it be known he was not satisfied. That, apparently, was enough to get the message across to his crew that once again they had better be on their toes.

Repairs had taken days instead of hours, and refueling, even with a pump, took many hours. Hours were nothing if there was no enemy around, but the hunter was the hunted, and at some point the most ardent hunter needed to find safe haven less a group of packs decide to overthrow him.

Local corsairs and even pirates had offered assistance, but Gahv had silently dismissed them. He knew how to survive, and had no need for a pack. Though, logically, any assistance offered now would prove useful. Gahv stared out at the black vista, again the computer readouts lit his deep gray face. Images of flight paths and other graphically depicted data had turned the bridge into a dark warehouse illuminated only by her control consoles. Functional, as Gahv preferred.

Hours went by before, “Rigged for jump, captain. Course?”

Gahv looked at the map long and hard. The borders of the three polities created a cavern for escape. A kind of canyon pass, and unlike the Imperial and Zhodani navies, he knew where the freeholds were. For that matter probably so did some of the more savvy Imperial naval commanders, but probably not the Zhodani, or they would in time given their psionic abilities.

“Set course, three-two-two, mark one-five. One point five sector jump.”

Ghadagh, the ship’s pilot was about to question his captain with cowed ears, but noted that there was a freeport there. Run by criminal scum, even by Vargr standards, it was nevertheless a place to get parts and other stores. “Aye, captain.”

“Initiate jump.” Gahv commanded.

“Aye, captain.”

The lights over the armored door dimmed briefly as did the various displays as a silvery blue swirling field twisted before them. The Stalker’s Fang stretched away from real space and into the realm of jump space.

* * *​

Tolchin’s type-T had had its hold’s gills stuffed with supplies, mostly food. Even the ship’s main corridors were lines with boxes of pasta, boxes filled with cans of soup, protein bars, or any consumable that could be made portable and to last months or years. Tolchin had cleaned out the stores of long time foods, and had made many a mom and pop frontier general shop’s quota for the next several months.

Currently his three ship formation were combing the position of the Crystal Dragon. As expected her corpse had been picked dry, first by the Imperial Scouts who found her, then the navy, then the scavengers who waited for the big boys to leave, and finally the marshal’s service, who also left after taking some redundant photos and nabbing whoever they found that was picking up the leavings. In short there were a few hunks of hull left over, but not much else.

Tolchin wasn’t surprised, and hadn’t expected to find any evidence or physical clues laying guilt on Gahv and his crew. Everyone by now knew who had attacked Ling’s hired merc-SDB crew. But, Tolchin was hoping his flotilla could trace a path. He had had scout survey sensors crammed into the nose of his type-T. It wasn’t the full packet, but enough of a group of antennas and other sensors that could pick up a starship’s signature, or a trace of one.

But no amount of electronic blood hounding on his part could reassemble the particles of a jump bubble, nor really trace where that bubble had gone. Sometimes there was a residue of energy, something like a wake, but it was long gone after a week or however long ago Gahv had been here.

Tolchin got up and went over to his sensor ops’ officer, a young ensign who had been focused and energized due to the importance of the mission. He hovered over him looking at the bank of flat screens arrayed before the young man, each one telling a different fragment of the same story.

“She was here all right, sir. There’s where she landed, the skid marks, some ejected machinery. All of it looks like it was damaged.”

“It looks like that missile did find its mark after all.” Tolchin militarily reminisced on the report.

“Sir?”

“The report says that two missiles detonated in the Fang’s proximity. I’m guessing that’s a result.” Tolchin nosed and chinned towards the micro-display that provided a zoomed up satellite’s overhead view of where the Stalker’s Fang had landed and made repairs.

The ensign zoomed up on the location with two different monitors. “There’s something else, captain.”

“What is it?”

“All this uncovered earth, sir. It looks like someone scooped up all the ice around her, and then chipped off more off of these ice covered rock formations.” The ensign’s tone was confident and near excited.

“That’s interesting.” Tolchin remarked. “It means her tanks were hit. She lost fuel.”

“And here, captain. That machinery. I’ll zoom up even more. I did some engineering courses before switching to ops, but that’s an induction coil, captain. A burnt out one.”

“Not just burnt out, Mister Hansen, but blackened and torn, as if it were caught in an explosion. So, damage to her tanks, and damage to one of her drives, and effectively running on fumes.”

“With all due respect, sir, the corsair is rated for wilderness fueling.”

“I’m aware of that, mister Hansen, but thanks for pointing it out all the same.” Tolchin tried to make his own comment sound like a compliment, “But she’s got one damaged drive, and is running on dirty go-go juice. That, and she’s been without effective fleet support for at least a year, if not more.” Tolchin was silent for a few moments more. “An evaluation, Mister Hansen, where do you think she went?”

Hansen manipulated the sensor suite some more, “From the looks of her take off point, assuming no deviation …” Hansen pulled up the navigator’s station’s star charts, “And assuming, like you said in the briefing, that her captain is one for efficiency, then that means she’s probably headed for here. Port Saluga. Saluga, captain?”

“Interesting.” Tolchin almost grinned. “Saluga, ensign, is an old Solomani pirate haven. It’s not on official charts, not even half the Imperial Navy knows of its existence.”

“Then how is it showing up on our charts, sir? ”

“Because, ensign, our job is hunting pirates. Just like the local PD knows who’s selling drugs and arms, so it is that we know where the pirates run to. The key is getting the authorization to act. Or proving that you acted on good evidence.” Tolchin studied the map and images a few moments more. “Good job, ensign.” Then pushed off and stepped back towards his command seat. “Mister Vanders, rig for jump. Coms, signal birds two and three that we’re jumping for Saluga. We’ll refuel at point Bravo one week from now.”

“Understood, captain.”

Tolchin grimly mused that millennia ago, in the age of sail back on the Terran home world, that Port Tortuga was the pirate haven for the Caribbean or South East Atlantic. A haven that was allowed to thrive until one of the local empires finally sent a fleet to stamp it out. Well, he had three sleek battle ready birds ready to engage anything, but it remained to be seen what they found once they finally arrived at Saluga. Would there be a pirate fleet to greet them, ready to assist and help Gahv out of high space criminal solidarity, or was it a wild goose chase? Time would tell.

 

[Blue Ghost]

The Stalker’s Fang exited jump into deep black interstellar space with a collection of lights sprawled over a black spherical object—a rogue world known as Saluga’s Hold. But the lights were sporadic and few, and what registered on the ship’s sensors was debris. Starship debris and irradiated hunks of metal. Saluga was no more.

Based on a rogue world out in the rarely transited spaceways, Saluga was a one time Terran, not Solomani, base that had been established during Earth’s post war expansionist period of when the Terran navy was attempting to administer the recently conquered first Imperium at the end of the Interstellar wars. Or so the old records made available from the Imperial scouts and transcribed to Vargr databases stated.

But regardless of its history, it was no more. In orbit an empty airless hulk of an orbital facility and on the surface nothing but craters where a Downport used to be, along with the remnants of a few starship hulls, again mutilated by laser fire and missiles.

Had the humans finally decided to address this freeport? It appeared so. Again, Gahv’s plans had been ruined for a third time. According to Veelash they were lucky to have made it this far without misjumping, and now would have to risk jumping to a populated world to get actual fuel and possible repairs depending on the local government’s status in regards to him and his vessel.

More plans ruined. Gahv growled in spite of himself. The fury grew in him and reached a boiling point. But intellectually he knew that no amount of venting his wrath on his crew would help. He needed them to keep the ship running until such time as he could acquire another ship and crew replacements. They had spent several weeks bouncing from rogue world to rogue world, grabbing nitrogen, hydrogen and oxygen ice to supplant fuel and life support. And their supplies of food stores were running low. Port Saluga promised to be a friendly port with all of what they needed. And now that was denied.

As long as the engine situation held out then the only thing they really needed were provisions.

“Captain, picking up scanning signals.”

And someone was still here.

“Military grade, captain. Zhodani.”

That explained port Saluga. Apparently the Zhodani had had enough of a pirate stronghold out in the middle of space, and decided to finally take care of it, possibly seeing it as an Imperial fifth column effort designed to harass Zhodani shipping through unofficial letters of marque. But all that meant was that Gahv’s ship, as wounded as she was, would be fair game.

“Power down. All systems, even life support. Have the crew suit up. Helm, set attitude to one-one-five, and give us a one-hour revolution roll. Play dead.”

“Aye-aye, captain.”

One by one the lights and various displays went dead, and the ship’s atmosphere was slowly evacuated until the entire crew was suited up to mask their presence. No heat, no air, no power, tumbling aimlessly amongst the rest of the flotsam and jetsam, whoever was here would hopefully not look them over too closely.

“Stand by to repel boarders.” Gahv finally ordered as he grabbed his heavy sidearm and strapped on his laser pistol.

 

[Blue Ghost]

Captain Keav Veanch watched his command crew aboard the Zhaavsh class guard Escort use conventional scanning to sweep the area for newcomers, who hoped to use the highly illicit facilities of the former Solomani base. The bridge with its bright and hospital like lighting that spread a clinical illumination in every direction, was a combination of light gray and white panels with black control surfaces that had gray and white controls. Perhaps not as efficient nor as sophisticated as Imperial electronics, and perhaps not on par with select Vargr technologies, they did their job, and were as effective as anything the Imperium or scattered Vargr nations used. Or so he told himself. The truth was that even though the Consulate enjoyed a tech curve that matched, and perhaps even surpassed the Imperium in some ways, the Imperials, and even those humans living further out, always seemed to come up with new devices that forced the Consulate to play catch up.

The old Solomani base, or Terran, or whatever it was called was no more. He wasn’t sure what the political situation was on the other side of the Imperium, where the Imperial navy had the old Earth home world under naval interdiction and a lenient version of martial law, but this facility, apparently constructed centuries ago, and long forgotten, but procured more recently by those who had social disorder in their blood, had been permanently deactivated. Veanch mused over the word. Deactivated was a mechanical term, used more for machinery, but it seemed appropriate here. Though whatever word described the killing of an infestation, to his mind, would be more appropriate.

He didn’t hold stock with electronic scanning. Starship and hand held sensor and scanning equipment had their uses, but it never got at the nub of intelligence that seemed vital to all schemes within and without the Consulate. A case in point was this base. Secreted in the deep realms of pure non-stellar void, it required a captive and several mind scans to extract the location of the facility. He doubted the Imperium would or even could effect such an intelligence gathering operation. Yet, at the same time, they, the Imperium, and others did seem to keep abreast of military and commercial intelligence. How that was possible without the employment of gifted personnel, was beyond Veanch’s understanding. Could it be that freedom of thought created devices that were far more effective than the harvesting and nurturing of psionically talented individuals? He dismissed the notion.

Still, the base where many a social malcontent had called home, had been dealt with via a major strike force that comprised more than just his vessel, but an entire mainline fleet that destroyed, captured, or drove off all who were present. Nothing left but the local flotsam and jetsam that constituted the destroyed remnants of a pirate base, a pirate fleet, and whatever else had been here.

Still, even now, there were interlopers who hadn’t heard of the base’s destruction, and were jumping in only to discover the ruins, again only to escape via a quick jump out system—especially when they picked up a six-hundred ton Zhodani escort patroller.

And that was the other thing about non Zhodani ships, Veanch silently wondered to himself, they always seemed to be sleeker and more functional, and again had a technological edge that Veanch and the rest of the consulate didn’t understand all that well, no matter how often they scanned captives or otherwise interrogated them. Not entirely true, freedom of thought was not a foreign concept, and brought its own rewards, but it hardly seemed worth it given the criminal chaos that comprised not just this now defunct base, but entire crime ridden cities within the Imperium and like regions of space. Chaotic and uncivilized. Again, as evident of this Terran base.

At least that was the last report he knew of. And the reason that was important was because this whole establishment had apparently been created by the ancient Terran navy eons ago from what had, over the centuries, changed and altered into the Solomani Confederation. But this didn’t look like a Soli base. And there were few Solis or Terrans or whatever they called themselves, who made it out this far to plant their Zodiac flag—the one with the circle-cross. Yet this thing was here. Again, testament to how a technological edge did not ascribe superiority in any matters.

This facility, now effectively dispatched due to his task force, was one such remnant of the old expansionist regime. A pirate base that had been a thorn in the Consulate’s side for a number of years, but had been elusive until a chance capture some months back that allowed guard interrogators to extract the approximate location. As usual, Vilani and Terran minds were a jumble of ideas and concepts, and often required more than one scan to get the right information. Vargr minds were worse in this regard since they often had aggressive thoughts of how to do things better, coupled with a lot of ego and blended loyalties coursing within their thoughts. Emotional clutter did not help getting at nuggets of truth locked in a person’s mind.

Veanch continued his mental exercise of debating how it was that technology took a close backseat to the psionic talent of reaching into a person’s neural network with inherit powers. Powers that could tap a database, or focus energies into attacks or other extravagant acts that the Imperium and most of the rest of space condemned. That verse the Imperial way of inflicting pain, drugs, or using their own version of psionic talents to probe for what they wanted. For all their technological progress they resorted to the Zhodani way. So it was with social inferiors, and so it was that the caste and general social order the consulate offered its people was seen, by outworlders, as a tyranny in spite of their duplication of interrogation techniques and the obvious social benefits to the Zhodani people.

“Captain, I’m picking up a body near the orbital facility. I don’t recall seeing it before, but she appears dead.”

“Enhance scan.” Veanch ordered. He had already spent much of his mental energies looking for stragglers as they orbited the rogue planet. There were a few officers present, and his detachment of special commandos, but he needed them for boarding action.

“No life signs, captain. She’s sustained considerable damage, but I’m not reading any atmosphere. It looks like she came here on automatic pilot. I’m reading breaches in her hull, the major ones are all patched up. No heat sources. I’m not registering any neural activity by way of our scans. There’s some residual heat, but she’s cooling quickly.”

Veanch didn’t trust Vargr. Few did. Friends one moment, aggressors the next, they were prone to fighting and then fleeing when things went bad. Had that happened here? Cold, airless, no life registering, yet she had exited jump with repairs. A real mystery.

No, he didn’t trust it. Fortunately he had a squad of consular guard on board, and considered mustering them as he watched the sleek yet battered form of the yellow and black corsair slowly gyrate lifelessly amidst a bunch of other debris. Had the captain ordered her to do this? That was a possibility, but if that were the case, then why wasn’t he or any of his crew registering on the sensors?

Veanch personally checked the readouts. Heartbeats? No. Carbon dioxide buildup? No. Heat signatures? Some residual heat, but nothing to indicate an active crew. And there certainly wasn’t any air or other gases registering. Veanch looked up out the sleek forward windows at the Vargr design with sharp edges. There were a number of freshly welded patches over a blast mark on her starboard topside. Odds were that if her condition was true to perception, then that was the culprit. Had she lost a fight, escaped to jump for repairs, and then somehow succumb to her damage killing her crew? It appeared to be that way. But what if it wasn’t?

Veanch sighed, “Muster the guard. Have them prepare for boarding action. Inform Sergeant Keelazh that we have an apparent derelict, but I’m not willing to risk docking with her. Give him the scans, and have him report to me when he’s ready.”

 

[Blue Ghost]

Captain Qrel Kiahb double checked his carbine and the cable attached to the huge battery back pack mounted on top of his armor’s environmental suite. Nearby was a team of medics, each with a syringe filled with psionic reagents designed to boost the energy levels of espers. Each medic ported the syringe to an intake in the mostly black armor worn by Zhodani troopers, which interfaced with the wearer on a number of levels, allowing the addition of fluids or medications on a moment’s notice. Notably psionic booster drugs.

Again the interior of the sleek Zhodani “patroller” was lit like a hospital—all bright white lights against white and gray panels, occasionally broken up by a black console or gray or white dial or switch. The black clad troops with the recognizable clam shaped helmet, some unfolded, others clamped shut, milled about checking weapons and equipment as others received booster shots.

Kiahb went over the ship’s sensor logs. A Vargr corsair, apparently exited from jump with no signs of life, drifting out of control in the remnants of what the squadron had done some days ago. Only now the squadron was gone, and only the Escort was left as a clean up crew to see if anyone else decided to chance the port as a place of criminal refuge. A few had, but nearly all had been driven off. But this ship apparently exited jump on its own and was now floating aimlessly.

Captain Veanch didn’t want to risk docking with her in case of some kind of trick or ploy to catch him off guard. Kiahb didn’t have a problem with that. Better safe than sorry, and all that that implied. Still, he would rather have waited for a more opportune time to use his squad’s teleportation ability.

* * *​

A broad bright light filled the lower corridor. It shimmered and glowed to life in pitch black of the Stalker’s Fang’s lower deck, coincidentally where her airlocks were situated. The ethereal blue swirled, flashed, and pulsated before finally taking form to reveal twelve black armored Zhodani troopers with what Solomani and Imperials alike sometimes referred to as the bug-eyed helmet, characteristic of all Zhodani soldiers.

In zero gee their feet briefly touched the deck causing creaks and taps on its metal.

With assault laser carbines held at the ready, Kiahb pointed to six of his men to go aft and secure engineering, the other five were to follow him. All with hand signals. No chatter over the tactical channel.

As he and his team pushed forward, gliding through the airless dingey confines of the corsair, they noted a figure in a vaccsuit floating free. He scanned it. An older model from deep in the extents. Regardless, no life readings showed up. No pulse, no detectable neural activity. He folded the scanner away and motioned his men to continue their venture forward. And with that the ship’s emergency battery powered lighting came on, a kind of light orange that to Vargr eyes must have registered as a light gray.

They found an access hatch, again floated up through it until they were all on the top deck just outside the armored sliding door that led to the bridge. Then someone broke radio silence and spoke in his hear.

“Sergeant Kahz, captain. Nobody here except one engineer slumped in his chair. He’s suited up, but I’m not getting any life signs from him.”

“Any indication of what happened?” Kiahb replied honestly. Some commanders demanded answers, but though the situation was potentially stressful, they weren’t under fire, and exercising officer’s bravado right now would be counterproductive.

“According to the readouts his air had run out some days before while he was at his station. I can’t say much beyond that.”

“That doesn’t tell us what happened.” Kiahb suggested.

“No, sir, it doesn’t, but it appears that they were running from a fight. At least that’s my best guess, sir.”

“Thank you, sergeant, carry on.” Kiahb pointed to two of his men to help him try and pry the door open.

Meanwhile in engineering one of the troopers with some rudimentary knowledge of starship operations, puzzled and fiddled with some of the Vargr labeled switches. Using his suits database of Vargr dialects, he was able to get a translation of the controls, and soon gravity was back online. Even so only the dim emergency red lights remained on, and nothing more.

Back outside the bridge Kiahb had noted that things were out of place. Odds and ends were strewn about. A few discharged high energy laser mercenary rated batteries were floating spent of all charge. It appeared as if she had been in a fight of some kind. With all of the damage to the exterior, and some severe inner hull ruptures, this had all the obvious earmarks of a major battle.

He strained against whatever force was keeping the door sealed, but with some effort the armored door silently slid open under the power of four men working together, while the other two watched with hands ready to help if needed. Apparently, the only thing holding her was her mass—being an armored door had its own benefits when it came to defeating potential theft.

Kiahb nodded to his men as a sign of “good work”, then gestured to make their weapons ready before entering the near black confines of the corsair’s bridge.

The work lights on all six men’s helmets illuminated sections here and there as they turned and looked about, creating a kind of head lamp light show for the would be onlooker. Kiahb worked out scenarios in his mind as he cautiously stepped forward, but realized that all he could do was take in when his eyes and armor’s sensors were noting; bulk formed bodies in vaccsuits on the deck, others strapped to their station chairs weapons nearby, but everywhere he waved his scanner it was the same story; no life signs.

A boarding action? Probably not. More like preparation for a boarding action. A boarding action that never came, or so it appeared.

Even as a trained Zhodani talent of the upper caste with noble status, to his well trained and disciplined mind It was beyond eerie, although safe. Dead men, or Vargr in this case, were only as dangerous as one let them be. Still, a death ship, no matter how rational an individual, carried a bad vibe. It went against all reason that he should be scared, for this was a shadow of something that had happened at least a week ago. But the primal emotion was there all the same.

If he could only get the lights back on rather than relying on his squad’s work lights and sensors, as well relying on whatever battery power was left in the vessel’s own emergency lighting. Outside the dual sleek inset bridge windows, themselves almost looking like a wolf’s eyes, he could see the orbital facility and his own Zhodani Escort patroller ever so slowly revolving around an invisible central axis. And even though it was actually the corsair that was aimlessly rotating, it made Kiahb dizzy and sick to his stomach. He dare not ask if any one in the squad felt quessy. They probably did, but no one would admit to it. That and it would detract from the job at hand.

He looked across the bridge and saw his special operations officer, Corporal Qrel, motioning him over to the ship’s log. Kiahb carefully stepped over another vaccsuited body to reach the log station.

 

[Blue Ghost]

“The playback controls are in some odd Vargr dialect,” Qrel informed, “but I think I got a handle on it. Here’s the last playback before she went into jump.” The young corporal put the log back one week where there were two bright flashes below her hold and on her starboard-aft quarter.

“Go back just before that.” Kiahb ordered, and the young officer scrubbed through a few seconds of footage just before the missiles struck home.

The viewer scrolled back further, and showed the Stalker’s Fang’s bridge view of her two laser turrets raking what looked like an Imperial Dragon class system defense boat. The pulses from the corsair’s two triple beam turrets slashed and clawed mercilessly at the SDB, but two missiles had evaded the close in weapons self defense routine, and slammed into what looked like the fuel tanks and engineering.

“It looks like we have our story.” Kiahb concluded.

“According to this memo on the abstract,” the officer added, “the engineer stated that life support had been knocked out just as they entered jump. They went on emergency reserve, then it looks like the crew tried to fix it, but … they weren’t successful. The ship was already set on automatic to come here and followed that routine even after the crew was long dead.”

“Pirates or no, what a way to go.” Kiahb commented. “We better report this back to—”

A crimson HEL gun beam sliced into his armor at point blank range, its burning glow was the last thing Kiahb saw before life left his eyes as Gahv and the rest of the bridge rose up and fired.

The bridge of the Stalker’s Fang was alit with the strobing flash of columns of crimson red HEL gun beams, lashing out in vengeance at the Consulate’s finest.

Three Zhodani troopers fell as HEL gun beams and ACR sabot rounds seared and punched through their armor. The other three returned fire as best they could, and for a brief moment the corsair’s bridge was alight with crimson laser from both sides, the characteristic electrical snap and high tech whine of the beams translated through what little atmosphere was left as they lazed across the bridge, and slowly grew in strength as the bridge was re-pressurized.

Kael’s ACR spat several four round bursts, each series of bursts ejected foot long flashes lighting up the bridge like a night club. The laser fire hitting home or missing, found its mark or splayed off metal surfaces or melting plastic to create a visual chaos.

In the high-tech maelstrom that was the fire fight, Gahv purposefully got up, bolted to the weapons’ station, and activated the routine that would hopefully prevent more strange Zhodani commandos from teleporting in.

The corporal got off a shot, but the Vargr’s dual layered ablative and reflective ballistic armor shrugged off the Zhodani military grade laser weapon, and his own energy absorbing plates couldn’t withstand the energy from the Fang’s HEL gun armed crew. Death took him as several lasers and ACR rounds slammed and punched through the finest armor the consulate could give their troops.

The remaining troopers sheltered behind consoles, but one by one were put down by Gahv’s crew. One LT jumped Gahv and wrestled with him, but for naught. Gahv was the largest Vargr the young officer had ever seen as the Stalkers’ Fang’s captain quickly threw back his visor to let the image of his face sink into the one man who would engage him in hand to hand combat.

The lieutenant quickly flashed a decision in his mind, did he psionically assault this creature and then make a b-line for the nearest airlock, or did he hope his limited hand to hand training could overcome this creature or at least allow him to escape, and then find and lock himself away so he could meditate and teleport back to the patroller?

It didn’t matter. Gahv slammed the young Zhodani against the deck, the Zho’s helmet did its job, but the force of the impact could still be felt even if the ballistic grade material had spread the energy of the buffeting. But for all that the LT couldn’t concentrate for a mind blast. Again, it didn’t matter as the last image he saw in his lifetime was the massive Vargr pointing a high caliber revolver right at his reinforced faceplate, and the muzzle flash that ended his life.

Gahv put three rounds total into the human, then got up and emptied the remainder of the chambers at the Zhodani trooper who had exchanged two trigger bursts with Kael. The thunder from Gahv’s revolver was nerve wracking for the other Vargr as Gahv snarled and growled as he threw the empty weapon aside and pulled his laser pistol. The Zho trooper smacked Kael in the shoulder, sending him howling in pain as he fell to the deck. But Gahv let out one battery emptying long trigger pull into the Zhodani soldier who had managed to wound Gahv’s computer tech. But it didn’t faze him, and just as the Zhodani was about to immolate Gahv, Veelash slammed the commando with a HEL gun bolt powerful enough to melt the reinforced fibers and plates of his armor.

The bridge was ablaze with laser fire on both sides. Only one trooper remained. Gahv’s bridge crew popped up distracting him enough for Gahv himself to deliver the death blow with two long trigger pulls that seared into the Zhodani’s armor and the body it was supposed to protect.

“Weapons, activate those missiles.” Gahv’s tone again was the hunter’s snarl, and outside, a dozen gifts from the Imperial System Defense Boat Crystal Dragon’s missile magazine went active, then found and locked in on the Zhodani patroller.

* * *​

Veanch heard the screams and cries for help. That was all he needed. “Battle stations. Call our people back here. Weapons, lock onto that corsair, and bring it down.”

“Captain, we have multiple inbounds closing in on our position … imperial missiles, captain! All data matches up with a type two-two-five low profile self guided antishipping missile.”

“Spare me the specs—how did we miss them?!”

“I don’t know, sir. Closing fast!”

“Rig batteries for point defense! Helm, hard over, get us some speed, flank speed, now!”

The first missiles slammed her amidships, others in her drives, one actually going into her exhaust and rupturing engineering almost akin to what the Stalker’s Fang had suffered in her ever so brief engagement with the Crystal Dragon. The fiery orange and yellow plume of blast energy and plasma ripped out a significant section of her drives and engineering spaces, forcing her to pitch and yaw uncontrollably.

Another missile plunged into her living spaces causing explosive decompression. She had not been rigged for combat, and was essentially a walking air bubble out in space. Several crewman were instantly killed, if not by the blast then by the immediate evacuation of air from their lungs.

Two other stuck two of her six turrets, killing both gunnery crews, and another hit aft of the bridge, killing nearly all of the off duty personnel.

Her one remaining engine was locked into what Imperials and Terrans called zone-five overdrive, and pushed her far and away, yet without attitudinal control she went into an uncontrollable spin. Her inertia carried her farther and farther away, like a spinning top spewing sparks and plasma. A primitive hypersonic frame had been rendered an uncontrollable mass with energy and debris flying off of her bulk.

Not dead, but vanquished all the same.

 

[Blue Ghost]

* * *​

“I can’t get a proper tracking on her to finish her off, captain. But it looks like those missiles we took from that defense ship some weeks back did their job.”

The plunder from the Crystal Dragon was two fold, though limited. No riches save the ship’s hands on cash, but her magazine was filled with those low-profile missiles. And Zhegh had worked his engineering sorcery via his bank of electronic reagents to simply reprogram them. They were not sophisticated weapons in terms of any on board AI, as there was none. They had a simple single purpose computer that took instructions like the first generation electronic minds in the days of yore, and carried out their instructions with single minded lethality.

Patrollers were rated in the six-hundred ton range. Setting the missiles mass detection window well beyond four-hundred tons, and using a simple densitometer sensor to feel for nearby gravometric disturbances, made sure that the Stalker’s Fang would not be touched.

Gahv didn’t reply. “Is the ship secure?”

“Of the twelve that boarded us, captain, none have survived.”

Gahv seemed satisfied with that