He sighed again, wiping his forehead of sweat. “I’ve been in touch with Governor Teroken back on the planet. He’s been sending up relief supplies and engineering teams to work on repairing the damage. I dispatched this ship with the message as soon as I could. Any assistance you can offer will be most appreciated.” He sat up straight in front of the vid pickup, his gaze now locked straight ahead. “Iowa out.”
Verrikoth found himself slumped back slightly in his chair. The frost he’d felt when the message had started was gone now, and as his exoskeleton straightened, he could feel the thaw as the heat of his anger started to permeate. How dare they? These, these Kingslayers. That is twice now that they have been in an area where my influence extends. But this time? They smash up my yards and steal from me; then they have the sheer, utter gall to take my heavy cruiser?
His one regret is that the Kingslayers, pretentious worms that they were would already be long gone from the Cetetia Star System if they were any kind of smart. The precision attack and well-thought-out long game to compromise security there proved that they were.
Which will be all the more satisfying when we crush them. Verrikoth pressed a control.
“Tyler here.”
“Commander, a ssituation haz arizen. I need you to prep my flagsship for departure. We are going to Cetetia.”
There was only the briefest of pauses. “Understood, my Lord. Would we have time to wait for the initial cutters to be completed? Because if we’re leaving the system with the way things are now, taking Kopesh with us might not be the best option.”
Verrikoth found himself nodded. “An excellent notion, Commander. You and I will work out crewz and commanderz for thoze vesselz. I wish I had more to bring, but I cannot leave Trullium uncovered any more than it already iz. But I cannot resspond with anything less than Nemessiss.”
“Of course not, my Lord. We just need fuel and provisions topped up, and we’ll be ready. If we’re going to wait the ten days needed, that should be more than enough time.” The commander hesitated for a long moment. But then he squared his shoulders and spoke his mind. “But I believe it might be best if you were to stay here, my Lord. Things are dicey enough, but if you were to leave, it might be the catalyst that either the Xai’ryn or the Duchess would use to destabilize the whole system.”
Verrikoth clicked his mandibles lightly, and his fingers tapped on the desk. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like having to turn the Nemesis over to Tyler to check on Cetetia. Of course, sending his flagship with a small task force would send the right message. It wouldn’t be quite as powerful as going himself, but Tyler was right. Neither the Xai’ryn nor the Duchess could be trusted to stay calm and not strike at one another if he left. “Very well. I will coordinate with the Xai’ryn and the ssquadz on the ground. I will shift my flag over to Kopesh in the next few days. Get to work.” And he cut the connection. He let himself settle back against the chair, the fury dimming some. It didn’t flicker out, but it was definitely more of a candle than a raging inferno. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to send Nemesis out of the system, especially with the Xai’ryn trying to set down some roots. Inevitably, she was stirring the pot (this was the Xai’ryn, after all), and it would only take one false step for one side or the other to decide to make a move, and by removing himself from the situation, he was giving tacit approval to them both.
But there was nothing to be done for it. He had to respond to such an attack. He sat up again and began making notations about what kind of relief supplies and parts he could ship over in Nemesis’s cargo bays. The cutters would have no cargo space, so anything he could bring would have to be on the cruiser, and that wouldn’t be much. Certainly not for what a shipyard would need.
I need to get my flagship there and show Governor Teroken that the situation is under control. And I must trust that Jensen Tyler is capable enough to do that without me standing behind him and watching. And once they are back up on their feet, then I hunt those Kingslayers down and tear them apart.
A warlord’s work was never done.
The Fat Prize
“Cap’n, I got something you’re gonna like,” the human named Trag spoke up from the sensor station.
Captain Davan Hamma, known to his crew as the Rock Hammer, stood from his command seat and clomped over to him. As a rocky-skinned Secaaran, he was bulkier than many of his crew aboard the pirate vessel Slasher, an ancient and rusted corvette. This suited him fine, as it allowed him to better maintain control over his crew of cutthroats.
His small flotilla of the Bloody Hawks pirate gang was flying in close formation, with the two corvettes (Slasher and Spite) leading, with the cargo ships following along behind. All the ships were painted with the distinctive firebird on their hull, making them stand out very well to all who gazed upon them. The ships left Benguvoor two months ago, and just crossed the hyper limit into the Folston Star system.
“What is it?” he groused. He’d been looking forward to retiring to his cabin after a long hyperspace trip, knowing there were a few more days in the system to go before they reached the inhabited world.
“A ship,” Trag reported, smiling a black-toothed grin. “Big one. Bulk cargo hauler.”
“Well now,” Hamma stated, a smile spreading across his face. “I like the sound of that. Any escorts?”
“None on our scopes,” Trag said with a nasty chuckle. “One big, fat prize.”
“Can we get her before she escapes?” Hamma asked, crossing his arms over his wide chest. His chest was bare, save for a wide leather bandolier holding flash grenades. His armored forearms scraped against one another.
The navigator, an ugly human woman with a long, puckered, red scar running over one milky-white eye and her crooked nose, piped up. The scar actually did much to improve her appearance, according to her male crewmates. “Oh, yeah, Captain. We can catch ‘em long before they can get away. They’re currently on an in-system course, and their speed is slowly increasing. They won’t be able to alter vector enough to evade.”
“Very well, Meredith. Plot us an intercept. Let’s go get ‘em.” A ship that size probably wouldn’t be loaded up with platinum or gold, but Hamma was sure there had to be plenty of riches aboard. Even only taking some of the crew for slaves, looting the ship for spare parts, food, and topping up his flotilla’s fuel bunkers would make an action here worth it.
Forty-eight minutes later, the two corvettes Slasher and Spite moved into weapon’s range of the bulk hauler. “Coming up on her port side aft.” Trag’s voice was calm but eager.
Hamma nodded. “Don’t get impatient, just wound them. Target engines only.”
“Copy that, Captain,” the zheen at tactical replied. His voice translator rendered his clicks and hisses into Standard.
“Forward guns, fire,” the Secaaran ordered his eyes on the display.
Slasher and Spite opened up with their forward lasers, just hanging back and peppering the larger ship.
“We’re getting some weakening on their aft shields,” Trag reported from sensors. “Not as much as I would have expected. Looks like they might be reinforced.”
“Guns, hit them again.” Hamma’s order was accompanied by his fist hitting the right arm of his command seat.
Another volley from the corvettes and then Trag spoke from the sensor station. “We are showing spotting on their aft shields. They’re turning to try and put their engines away from us.”
The Rock Hammer chuckled. “Where does he think he’s going? Comms, send a broadcast.” A second later, the comm key flashed green. He pressed it. “This is the Slasher, of the Bloody Hawks. Surrender, and we may be merciful. Fight us, and you will suffer. Out.” He switched it off. “Guns, again.”
After two more volleys and some maneuvers by the pirate corvettes, the aft shields of the cargo ship were showing heavy spotting. Hamma could see large holes in the shields forming on his display.
“Captain, incoming transmission.”
A panicky, fe
male voice came over the speakers. “Stop, please! Stars, stop!”
“Put me on!” Hamma snapped and a second later, the channel opened. “This is the Slasher. I’ll stop when you cut your engines and drop your shields. Prepare to be boarded!”
“Yes, of course, of course. Just don’t fire!” The woman was sobbing with fear.
Just as Davan Hamma liked it. He cut the connection. “Sensors, report!”
“They’re slowing, Captain.” Trag examined his board. “They’re adrift.” He clucked his tongue. “They are not lowering their shields.”
Hamma growled. “Guns, give them another volley.” The Slasher’s weapons sang again, sending energy bolts lancing into the freighter’s buckling shields. “Teach those bastards to play games with me!”
“New contacts!” Trag called out, eyes wide. “Fourteen contacts, spreading out from the freighter.”
“What the hell?” Hamma shouted.
“Two groups,” Trag went on. “Showing four shuttles coming from the bottom of the ship; ten other craft coming over the top from the far side.”
“Ten shuttles?” Hamma demanded, checking his own display.
“No, looks like starfighters,” the man replied, frowning. “Never seen that type before.”
“Shift fire!” the captain yelled to the tactical station. “Hit those fighters!”
Xeakenn clicked his mandibles. “They’re too fast,” he replied. His carapace was starting to blush rose as Slasher’s gunners tried to shoot down the swiftly advancing starfighters.
Davan Hamma clenched and unclenched his fists, otherwise frozen in place. He said nothing. The bridge crew started looking at each other, unsure of what to do, concerned that their captain remained silent. On his own initiative, the helmsman entered a new course and engaged the Slasher’s engines, dropping the small ship down the z-axis, away from the freighter.
“They’re firing!” Trag called. “Missile separation! Missiles inbound!”
Still, Hamma said nothing; he just sat there as others tried desperately to fight his ship. The fat prize they engaged was now showing her very sharp teeth.
The helmsman twisted the corvette into a corkscrew maneuver to try and shake the multiple missile locks from the starfighters, but it wasn’t enough, and the ship just wasn’t fast enough. One of the Slasher’s gunners (with a shot of the purest luck, for it wasn’t skill) managed to spear one of the ten missiles chasing them, but the other nine crashed into the aft end of the warship and exploded.
Slasher bucked like a wounded animal. “Aft shields down!” the human male at the damage control station screamed. “Engines three and four are out, engine two damaged!”
Five of the starfighters swept past this ship, raking it from the stern to the bow with energy blasts. They looped and dodged, easily evading Slasher’s return fire. They came back again, strafing the pirate corvette a second time. Slasher shook under the barrage as shields failed. Damage markers appeared on various displays as more hits came in.
“Main power offline,” the damage control operator called as half the bridge consoles went dead. “Only life support and short range comms are still up.”
“I have short range sensors,” Trag stated as he pressed a few controls and about half his board lit back up. “Shuttles are closing in on us. Looks like they mean to board us.”
The man’s words snapped Hamma out of his funk. His paralysis, brought on by fear and the sheer surprise of the freighter turning the tables, slid away. He could control this situation. He could make it right.
“The hell they will!” he raged, leaping from his command seat and charging off the bridge. His sidearm was in his armored hand as he stomped down the ship’s corridors. There was a sharp crack, two pops and then a groan which grew into the clanging of tearing metal. Hamma raced down the corridor toward the unmistakable sound of gunfire.
He hopped over the knee-knocker and into the compartment with the portside airlock, just in time to see one of his zheen crewmen flop to the deck, dead, with a dozen bullet holes in his thorax, and another male zheen grappling with a silver-furred lupusan. The lupusan was wearing body armor over a blue ship suit; a rifle dropped on the deck nearby. The wolf gave a great roar and in an impressive feat of strength, gripped the zheen’s hand and wrist and yanked him forward. Caught off guard, the zheen stumbled and fell into an embrace, which ended when the wolf clamped its jaws on the zheen’s neck and crunched. Ripping backward, nerve cords and sinew hung from the silver wolf’s ichor-stained jaws. The insectoid dropped to the deck, twitching, fluid oozing from the horrible wound and the wolf spat the mess onto the body.
Hamma raised his weapon, clicked the safety and fired. The wolf’s ears pricked at the noise of the safety catch and as the Secaaran squeezed the trigger, the silver wolf was already ducking down, bullets hitting the metal bulkhead behind it. Hamma fired again, but the wolf was already moving.
An ear-shattering roar filled the compartment, and the lupusan closed the distance in a single bound. A clawed hand tore at his outstretched gun hand, tearing furrows into Hamma’s forearm, which sent waves of agony shooting up his arm. The gun fell from his fingers with a clunk.
His other hand was already moving and his fist connected with the wolf’s muzzle, snapping its head back and forced the wolf to stumble. The lupusan recovered almost instantly, pivoting and delivering a kick to Hamma’s chest. The blow didn’t hurt, in fact, he barely felt it, but it did knock him back a step. He blocked a swipe on his uninjured forearm, but his own follow-up punch to the lupusan’s gut was scooped aside by the wolf’s other hand.
Then the wolf snapped at Hamma’s face. The foul odor of zheen fluids and the wolf’s own fetid breath turned the Secaaran’s stomach, but despite the unlikelihood the wolf could actually bite his face, he recoiled. The wolf took advantage of the slip, raking one clawed hand across Hamma’s chest, tearing through his bandolier and scratching deep into his skin. The follow-up strike was to his rocky face, and one of the clawed fingers pierced his eye and got hung up for a second until the wolf tore its hand free.
Hamma howled in agony and lashed out with his right fist, while his left hand clapped over the wounded eye socket. His fist thumped against the wolf’s torso, and even through the armor, Hamma could hear the distinctive sound of a rib cracking. The wolf pirouetted and a large, wide blade appeared in its hands. The lupusan chopped the large blade across, slicing Hamma’s left arm as easily as if it was the flesh of a human. Green blood started pumping from the wound.
Hamma yelled, then tucked his head and charged, trying to catch this enemy in a bear hug. The wolf stepped to the Secaaran’s left and slashed him again. The blade cleaved through the hardened skin on his side and more green blood gushed out.
He gasped and staggered, falling against the bulkhead. Another strike sliced down on his back, followed by another to the back of his legs, and he fell to his knees.
“No!” he cried in despair. Then he saw it; his gun was on the deck, only a few feet away. He dove, twisting to grab the weapon and felt his fingers close over the grip. He rolled on his wounded back, forcing a gasp of air from his lungs from the pain, but he raised the weapon in his steady right hand.
But the wolf sidestepped again, bringing the blade crashing down on his elbow joint. His thick skin prevented his arm from being severed, but Davan Hamma still suffered a serious gash. He cried out in utter agony and bewilderment; he’d never felt so much pain before, and the gun went off. The wolf bellowed in pain as the shot hit it in the left foot.
Howling in the purest rage, the wolf raised the blade over its head and brought it down again and again on the Secaaran’s neck, chopping and splattering blood everywhere until finally the blade cleaved all the way through and clanked on the metal deck beneath.
Growling and whimpering from its injuries, the wolf reached down and scooped up the head, ignoring the blood. Limping heavily, the lupusan retrieved its assault rifle, discarded when the fight with the zheen began. Other t
roops dressed in dressed in blue shipsuits and carrying guns came in from the airlock.
“Medic!” one shouted. “Chief’s hurt!” Then he recoiled from the sight of the severed head tucked under the chief’s arm. “Gah! Damn it, Chief, why do you have that?”
“It’s a present for the bridge crew,” the wolf told the man as he went completely pale. “Tell the captain that the port airlock is clear.”
(*-*)
On the bridge, the various operators were looking at one another anxiously, afraid to leave the compartment since the captain left, but he had not reported back. There were intermittent sounds of gunfire echoing throughout the corridors, causing Trag and Meredith to draw their sidearms.
The comm panel started beeping rapidly. The comms operator pressed the control, opening the channel. A display window activated.
The image of a dark-skinned human male appeared on the display. He was dressed in a navy blue shipsuit with gold shoulder trim and a gold galactic spiral on his right breast. He crossed his arms over his chest. The man glared out at the bridge beyond, his eyes full of loathing.
“This is Vincent Eamonn, Captain of the Grania Estelle. Surrender and my security forces will be merciful. Your ships are mine now, the warships and the cargo vessels. I’ve run into your filth before, and the last time you attacked my ship, you did a great deal of damage, stole equipment and hurt my crew. I advise you to follow my advice and surrender. You will not get another warning.”
A lupusan with silver fur carrying a rifle, flanked by a pair of humans appeared at the bridge hatch. The wolf limped inside and tossed an object inside. It arced across the compartment to land with a heavy thump on the deck.
The Warlord's Path: Samair in Argos: Book 6 Page 34