by Tripp Ellis
Officer Spence flashed him a puzzled look.
Without breaking eye contact with Spence, Tobias raised his pistol to the Captain's head and squeezed the trigger. The bang reverberated through the corridor. The bullet blew the captain’s head open like a watermelon, painting the bulkheads red. His carcass flopped to the deck.
Tobias’s menacing eyes burned into Officer Spence. "As I was saying—“
“Yes," Spence stammered in hysterics. "I'm a much better actor."
Tobias grinned. "For your sake I hope so."
Yuri shoved him in the direction of the vault. Officer Spence tried to compose himself before he got into the view of the AI’s camera. Spence desperately tried to keep his hands from shaking. He swallowed hard as he stepped to the biometric scanner. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, then placed his hand on the pad.
“Please identify yourself."
"First Officer Charles Spence."
He waited for what seemed like an eternity.
"I'm sorry, Officer Spence. I'm detecting stress patterns in your voice. Are you under any kind of duress?"
Spencer swallowed hard. "No. I just had a lot of coffee today."
15
"I'm sorry, Officer Spence,” the vault AI said. “That reply registers as other than truthful. I cannot grant access at this time. Please try again later."
Spence tried to contain his dread. His nervous eyes flicked to Tobias, who looked quite displeased. Spence took off running down the hallway. He knew what was in store for him, there was no sense making it any easier for the goons.
Tobias raised his pistol and took aim at the fleeing man. He lined him up in his sights and squeezed the trigger. Smoke wafted from the barrel as the bullet rocketed down the hallway, impacting the back of Spence's skull. The hollow-point round blew Spence’s face off completely. His carcass crashed to the deck, oozing blood.
"You want me to find the CSO?” Rex asked.
“Uh, slight problem, boss” Yuri said. He seemed reluctant to bring it up.
Tobias’s eyes narrowed at the big ogre.
Yuri was 6’3” and built like a tank. He had short blond hair, shaved on the sides. He had a triangular face, brown eyes, and a fat neck that disappeared into his overgrown shoulders.
“The CSO’s dead.”
“Who was the genius who shot him?”
“Nobody. I think he dropped dead of a fucking heart attack.”
Tobias’s eyes found Carson. "It looks like you're up.”
Carson grinned. "I'll have it open in a jiffy."
"I want to know the minute you're in,” Tobias said.
Carson mock saluted him, “Aye-aye, sir.” He moved to the vault as the others returned to the bridge. Carson connected his PDU to the data port, and began the long, arduous process of cracking the vault.
"I'm sorry, but you are not authorized for access,” the AI said.
Carson smiled with a devious glint in his eyes. “Not yet.”
After the hallways cleared of terrorists, Max opened the hatch and cautiously inched into the corridor. She tiptoed down the hall and peered around the corner at the next junction. The once bustling ship now looked like a ghost town.
She sneaked down to the communications room. The officers were slumped over their consoles, their white uniforms now stained red with blood. Max slipped into the compartment and delicately pushed one of the corpses aside so she could access the terminal. She looked over the display screen and opened a comm channel. The camera embedded into the display screen captured her image. She pressed a button on the console, and began her transmission. "Mayday, Mayday! This is the Celestial Voyager. The ship has been taken over by terrorists. The crew and passengers are being held hostage. They are heavily armed and have already killed several passengers. Please send immediate assistance."
Max set the transmission to repeat on a loop. She broadcasted the message on an open frequency, hoping to reach anyone nearby. There seemed to be some kind of interference, and she wasn't sure if the transmission would ever reach anyone.
On the bridge, a light flickered from the control terminal. "Sir, it looks like someone is trying to send a subspace transmission from the comm center." Rex said.
Tobias’s face tensed. "I thought you said all passengers were secured?"
"They are,” Rex replied.
"Apparently not. Go check it out and eliminate the problem."
Rex nodded and marched out of the compartment.
"Were they able to make contact with anyone?" Tobias asked.
"No,” Chad said. “I’ve got all systems channels jammed. It would be highly unlikely for anyone to pick up that signal."
Winston sat on the deck in the cargo bay next to Dylan. He looked at all the terrified faces. His eyes fell on a young mother hugging her sobbing child, hoping, praying that the child’s cries weren’t making too much noise. It didn't seem to be beyond the terrorists to put a bullet in a child, or the elderly.
Winston had spoken with the mother earlier. Her name was Sarah, and her daughter, Emily, had asthma. She was breathing normally now, but Sarah was terrified her daughter’s airways would close up. Sarah didn’t have Emily’s medication on hand. Her inhaler was back in the stateroom.
Sarah had wavy brown hair, and her daughter had a lighter shade of the same. Both shared gorgeous ice blue eyes. Sarah’s normally relaxed face was creased with lines of worry, and Emily’s eyes were puffy and red from crying. Her cheeks flushed a rosy color. It was heartbreaking to watch the two in such terror. Sarah had attempted to persuade a guard to let her get the inhaler from the stateroom, but she couldn’t even get the question out before gun barrels were in her face.
Winston continued glancing around the compartment. He caught sight of Dale Davidson and his wife, Audrey. He was attempting to stand, and Audrey had a hand on his arm, trying to keep him seated.
“Have you lost your damn mind?” Audrey hissed. “Sit down.”
“I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed!”
“Relax. I’m too mean to die.”
Audrey glared at him. “We’ll, you are certainly stupid.”
Dale staggered to his feet and ambled to the front of the compartment without a care in the world. He had a defiant scowl on his face.
"Ease up, old man. Just where do you think you're going?" One of the goons asked.
"I gotta take a dump."
The goon sized him up. "You’re old enough to wear adult diapers. Go in your pants."
Dale clenched his jaw. "Listen, you little punk. I fought in the First Verge War, VWII, and did 3 tours in the Arcturian Conflict. I was kicking ass before you were itching your daddy's balls. And I still got some whoop-ass in me. So, if you know what's good for you, you'll let me go to the head, pronto."
The goon seemed somewhat amused by Dale’s bravado. The terrorists had been taking prisoners to the restrooms in small groups. But at the rate they were going, it was going to take another hour or two to get around to the old man, and Dale wasn't about to wait.
"Alright. Go with the next group. Line up with the rest of them." The goon motioned toward the hatch where a dozen prisoners were standing in line, fidgeting nervously.
Dylan watched, wide-eyed, surprised by the outcome. "I thought for sure he was going to get himself killed."
“He seems rather daring,” Winston said.
Dylan’s eyes surveyed the guards. He was trying to form a plan.
”I hope you're not thinking of doing something stupid?” Winston said.
"Define stupid?"
"Statistically speaking, the shear number of prisoners in this cargo hold is more than enough to overpower the guards. There would, no doubt, be a substantial loss of life, but minimal as a ratio to the whole. I am not advocating this course of action, as it will most definitely lead to loss of life. But the situation is not insurmountable. For certain individuals, an attempted revolt could be classified as stupid.”
“Shut your pie hole, robot!” a goon shouted. He was strolling through the crowd, holding his assault rifle at the ready.
A perplexed look played on Winston’s face. “I don’t have a pie hole.”
“Your mouth,” the goon said, exasperated. “Stop using it. Unless, of course, you want to end up as scrap metal.”
“I think I prefer to remain functional, thank you.”
The goon shook his head and scowled at Winston.
16
Two goons marched the prisoners down the corridor to a nearby head. Drake and Tito. They were big bruisers, thick with muscles and sleeved with tattoos. There wore black fitted shirts that accentuated their bulging biceps, tactical vests, and gray digital camo pants. Tito had a black mohawk and a finely trimmed goatee. Drake was completely bald, and his head shined like it had been waxed.
They held their weapons in the low ready position, not too concerned about this group. The dozen hostages were mostly women, a few kids, and some elderly—not likely to start too much trouble on a trip to the bathroom.
The goons split them up into two groups, and Drake accompanied the men, while Tito accompanied the women.
"Can you give us a little privacy?" a woman snapped, her face twisted in disgust. She had a look of both fear and disdain in her eyes. Her upper lip twisted as she looked at the goon who had followed her into the ladies’ room.
"Deal with it,” Tito said. “You ain’t got nothing I want to see anyway."
She huffed and spun around, standing in line for one of the stalls.
In the men's room, Dale waited in line for one of the urinals, biding his time. Dale wasn't one to fidget, but if one looked carefully, they could see him move with nervous energy. Fortunately, no one was looking carefully. He was definitely up to something.
By this point in the game, the guards had made dozens of trips with passengers to the restrooms. It had gotten exceedingly boring for them, not to mention the unpleasant smells that emanated from the stalls were nauseating.
Drake crinkled his face as the foul odor from one of the stalls hit his nostrils. The grunts and groans from the occupant filled the compartment. It sounded like he was trying to pass a bowling ball.
"I don't think I'm getting paid enough for this shit,” the goon muttered to himself.
Dale's eyes flicked about as he advanced in line.
Drake took notice of him. He brought his weapon into the firing position and stuck the barrel of the weapon against the back of Dale's skull. He tapped him with it—not gently either. It forced Dale's head forward and probably left a mark.
Dale scowled at the creep.
"I thought you said you needed to take a dump?"
Dale hesitated for a moment. "I do."
A quizzical look played on the goon’s face.
Dale spun around with lightning speed, grabbing the barrel jacket, pushing the weapon aside. With his other hand, he chopped down on the stock, stripping the weapon from Drake’s grasp. The weapon rotated around, the barrel pointing at the goon upside down. Dale's finger found the trigger and blasted off a round into the goon’s belly.
The meathead doubled over, clutching his abdomen. Red blood seeped between his fingers. He looked up at Dale in disbelief. He had sad, puppy-dog eyes. He couldn't fathom how an old man in an exo-brace could disarm him with such ease. The slow, brutal realization that he was going to die was creeping into the dimwit’s mind. He didn't seem to like the idea one bit. But he wasn't going to last much longer. It would all be over soon.
Dale righted the weapon and brought the barrel up to the man's forehead. "Looks like I’m going to take a dump all over you."
The meathead mustered a snarl. It was an ineffectual gesture. It scared no one.
Dale squeezed the trigger and put a round in the terrorist’s forehead. The bullet tore through his brain, blasting the back of his skull apart. The red and gray slime painted the bulkheads. Fragments of bone stuck to the metal, sliding down to the deck.
Gunfire attracted the attention of the other guard. Tito stormed into the compartment with his weapon ready to blast.
Dale was two steps ahead of him, peppering the bastard with a flurry of bullets as he stepped into the men’s room. Tito’s body twitched and jerked as the bullets slammed into his torso, spitting geysers of blood. The creep flopped back against the bulkhead and slid to the deck. His weapon clattered against the tile.
A passenger kicked the weapon away from the dead man’s grasp and picked it up awkwardly. It was clear he had never handled a weapon before.
Dale moved to the entrance and peered down the corridor. It was empty. There didn’t appear to be anyone coming after them. It was hard to say if the gunshots could have been heard in the cargo bay, or not? Dale wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
“Let’s move out,” Dale commanded.
He stormed into the hallway and called into the women’s room. He reassured them that everyone was okay and that none of the passengers were hurt. They filed into the corridor, and Dale hurriedly led the group of passengers aft, moving away from the cargo bay.
Dale edged into a stairwell, and cautiously ascended the steps. The passengers followed in line behind him, making more noise than he would have liked. Their footsteps echoed against the bulkheads, even though they were stepping lightly.
Dale peered into the hallway on A deck, his steely eyes surveying both ends of the corridor. Seeing that it was clear, he motioned for his newly formed platoon to follow as he stepped in the hallway. He found an unlocked passenger compartment and led the group inside. It was cramped for a dozen people, but it was better than the alternative. It was a dual bedroom suite, just like Max’s, and there was a food fabricator and two restrooms.
Dale wasn’t exactly sure what his next plan of action was going to be. Rescuing his wife in the cargo bay was his top priority. But this wouldn’t be a bad place for the passengers to ride out the storm. Once everyone was situated, he headed back into the hallway.
The man who had picked up the other weapon had a panicked look on his face. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to see if I can rescue more hostages.”
The man was terrified. He didn’t look like he was about to volunteer for Dale’s new mission. “What should we do if the terrorists discover us?”
Dale glanced into the man’s eyes and said in an icy tone, “Kill them.”
The man swallowed hard.
In that moment, Dale’s eyes were as deep as oceans. They were like wells that had no bottom, full to the brim with vengeance. There was also something else in those steely eyes. A slight spark. A glimmer. Dale was back in the fight, and he was relevant again.
17
Jack leaned back and took a drag from a fat joint. The cherry glowed red as he inhaled. He held it in his lungs for a moment, then blew out a puff of blue smoke that filled the cockpit of the StarKnight SR-7. He handed the joint to his copilot and reclined, engrossing himself in the music that blasted into the compartment. He closed his bloodshot eyes and a sly grin curled on his lips. He had short dark hair and tanned skin, and was dressed in a flight suit emblazoned with the logo of the Customs & Planetary Protection Agency.
His copilot, Hank, took a drag. The fine herb crackled as he inhaled. He held the smoke in his chest for as long as he could, then hacked it out with cough. "This is good shit, man. Where'd you get it?"
"We busted a shipment from Delta Vega 6 a few weeks back. DV6 always has the best shit.”
The StarKnight floated in deep space. It was a small dropship that had room in the cargo area for six additional passengers. It had plasma cannons, Violator missiles, electronic countermeasures, and a quantum drive. It was also equipped with a limited number of emergency medical devices. Nothing near the capability of a SpaceLife ship, but could handle minor traumas.
There was nothing in sight except the endless, flickering stars. Jack was supposed to be patrolling the Dafku sector, but nothing ever happened
there. The craft was hovering on the dark side of the Nuqi, which was a small moon that orbited around Ugetra. It was a common spot for CPPA agents to sit and wait, hoping to ensnare smugglers coming out of slide space attempting to land on Ugetra to make an exchange. No one would think twice about Jack killing a few hours there.
Max's garbled transmission crackled over the comm system. "May… Voyager… Terrorist…" The choppy transmission repeated a few times, then cut out completely.
"What the hell is that?" Hank asked.
Jack sat up, his interest piqued. He pressed a button on the console and replayed the message a few times. "Sound like a distress call."
"Where is it coming from?"
Hank analyzed signal. "Looks like the Varco sector."
"Is there anything out there?"
Hank shrugged. “It’s popular with cruise ships. Should we go check it out? It's only a 20 minute slide space jump from here.”
“That’s not exactly in our job description," Jack replied.
"Actually, that's exactly our job description."
"Somebody else will pick it up."
The two exchanged a glance.
"I don't know,” Hank said. “That's a pretty weak signal."
Jack hesitated a moment. “Alright. Fuck it. Why not? It's probably just a false alarm anyway—somebody making a crank call."
Jack squinted at the display through bloodshot eyes. He punched in jump coordinates then engaged the slide space drive. The bulkheads rippled and warbled, and the craft vanished from the dark side of the moon.
20 minutes later, the StarKnight emerged alongside the Celestial Voyager. Jack began a slow circle of the vessel. Everything looked as it should. He opened a comm channel. "This is the CPPA to the Celestial Voyager common do you copy, over?"
There was no response.
Jack repeated the transmission. "This is the CPPA to the Celestial Voyager, do you copy, over?"
On the bridge of the celestial Voyager, Tobias grimaced. “This is the Celestial Voyager. What can we do for you?"
