That was a Xerk. They never blinked, they never slept, and they never stopped hunting you.
Well right now this one smiled, the fat, purplish flaps of skin that accounted for its lips drawing over its tusks with a slobbery, wet slap. “Downgrade your defences.”
That was all it said.
Carson didn’t even bother to answer. Instead, he crossed his arms and stared at the alien.
“We have your vessel in our sights. We will destroy it. Downgrade your defences.”
“And I have you in my sights,” Carson snarled, “you may be equipped with some kind of invisibility technology, but this ship is still faster and more powerful.” As Carson spoke, he let his lips spread thin over his clenched teeth. Though the move was not nearly as disgusting as the Xerk’s had been, he hoped it was equally as intimidating.
“This vessel is equipped with weapons you cannot detect,” the alien continued, never blinking as it locked Carson in the gaze of its jaundice-coloured eyes.
“Bullshit,” Carson answered simply.
The Xerk laughed, and it was a truly horrible sound. It was relayed through Carson’s speakers, and it echoed through the bridge with startling clarity, as if the alien stood right behind him.
Still, Carson did not twitch. He simply stared back into those terrible yellow eyes. “This isn’t going to be a negotiation, and you aren't going to manipulate me into downgrading my defences. You are illegally trespassing in Coalitions space. This vessel belongs to the United Galactic Coalition Army, and I am a lieutenant. You will be dealt with under the current Coalition treaty outlining the treatment of foreign hostile entities.”
The Xerk’s horrible eyes grew wide until they appeared to be two round, glistening yellow orbs of hatred, surrounded by a truly fearsome face. “Lower your defences, human,” it spat, “and we won’t feed your guts to our younglings.”
Carson didn’t even blink. “Computer, lock port turrets on the Barbarian vessel.”
The alien snarled again, then slowly began to laugh.
Well, Carson was going to cut that laugh short. Without an audible order, he raised his hand in a specific position, and the computer knew exactly what it meant.
Immediately the Farsight’s gun turrets burst into life, and fired round after round at the Barbarian vessel.
For the briefest, smallest fraction of a second, Carson worried that the Xerk was telling the truth and that somehow its vessel really did outgun and out manoeuvre the Farsight.
Yet in a blazing moment of destruction as the Farsight’s shots ripped into the Barbarian vessel, he realised it had been a ploy.
The Xerk screamed at him, his insults lost in translation.
Carson simply repeated his warning. “You will be dealt with under the United Galactic Coalition treaty that outlines the treatment of foreign hostile entities,” he stood back, typing something into the panel next to him.
Instantly the view screen switched back from that close-up view of the alien's face, and once again displayed the Barbarian ship.
Though it shot several volleys from its own guns towards the Farsight, the inertia shields saw them slow down enough that the Farsight’s computer could track and shoot them down with blasts from her own turrets.
If or when Carson got the chance, he would have to thank the Admiral from the bottom of his heart for clearing such a stupendous vessel for him.
But just as he managed a smile, the computer blared a warning.
“Another vessel is entering the system,” it said in its usual bored tone.
“Who does it belong to?” he snapped, sudden terror pulsing through his veins at the thought the Barbarians could have back up.
While the Farsight was indeed a powerful ship, if the Barbarians amassed enough firepower against it, it too would fall.
“Galactic Coalition Academy,” the computer pointed out, “it is a light cruiser registered under the number R5 912.”
“Academy?” he snapped. “What's an Academy light cruiser doing out here?” he began.
He stopped.
Realisation dawned on him, and it felt like an anchor had been tied to his gut and sent sinking through the floor.
Nida.
Jesus Christ, it was Nida.
“The vessel is damaged,” the computer announced, answering a question Carson hadn’t even had the time to think of.
When Nida's vessel escaped Earth, the entity had somehow found a way to shield the ship from the Earth’s sensor net. Yet now the Farsight’s computers could clearly pick it up.
And the reason why, was the enormous, trailing plume of smoke gushing out of its port engine. Automatically the Farsight’s computer narrowed in on it, and the picture on the view screen showed chunks of blackened hull battered with gaping holes.
“Can you detect any life signs? Can you detect any life signs?” Carson shouted at the computer.
“Negative. Sensors cannot penetrate the hull. An unusual, unknown energy source is blocking all attempts to scan,” the computer replied.
Before Carson could take a second to think, the embattled Barbarian cruiser turned towards Nida’s ship.
“Intercept,” Carson barked, lunging forward and clapping his hands on the panel as he stared with wide, focused eyes on the view screen. “Disable the Barbarian vessel's guns. Now,” he croaked.
Then, in a flash, he caught up to the situation, or at least his instincts did. Though he’d only been a lieutenant for a handful of years, in that time he'd seen more than his fair share of combat. And though he always relied on his training and knowledge, instincts, more often than not, were the single factor that kept him alive.
And now they roared in his mind that, once again, he was wandering into a trap.
Nida’s vessel was damaged, but what in the hell had damaged it?
In a flash, he understood there was another Barbarian ship.
“Pull back,” he screamed at the computer, “increase the inertia field.” He had no idea whether he could do this, but right now, he was desperate.
Then, in a flash, he saw it.
Another Barbarian vessel materialising right on the other side of his ship, blocking him off from Nida’s badly damaged cruiser.
“Countermeasures,” Carson had time to spit before both Barbarian vessels opened fire on him.
The Farsight was squeezed between both ships like the fillings in the centre of a sandwich.
His ship’s engines now powered up, shaking through the floor, and causing him to wobble where he stood.
The view on the main screen now showed flash after flash as both Barbarian vessels shot everything they had at the Farsight.
The ship shook, but so far, the inertia field was holding, and the computer was shooting each charge out of space before it could impact with the hull.
It couldn’t last though.
He either had seconds or minutes, but that was all.
As the floor below him began to shudder even more, he pressed something on his wristwatch, and his boots magnetised to the hull, helping him keep steady as he ran for one of the panels.
His fingers darting across it, he tried to use what power he could draw from other systems to scan for Nida’s ship.
“Come on,” he choked, briefly glancing up at the view screen to see those two ships circling him, biding their time, firing, and waiting for his countermeasures to fail.
“Come on,” he screamed louder.
He couldn’t find her. The Farsight scanners simply couldn’t detect Nida’s ship any more. Whether that meant the vessel had blown up, succumbing to its irreparable damage, he didn’t know.
But in a flash of fright as the ship lurched violently to the side, he realised that his vessel would be next.
“Damage detected,” the computer said, still in its bored electronic tone. It did not speak louder, and its voice did not register even a single note of terror. It just listed the damage sustained to the Farsight as if it were reading nothing more interesting than a maintena
nce log.
Right.
It was time to prepare for an incursion.
Battle.
He knew enough about the Barbarians to know they would not shoot a ship as sophisticated as the Farsight out of space. They’d simply board her, remove him, and take the vessel.
“Computer, prepare for an incursion. Release an armour unit,” Carson spat as he took several steps into the centre of the room.
“Armour unit released,” the computer noted.
He whirled on his foot to watch as the small arms locker in the wall unlocked, and the door disappeared into the wall, revealing rows of neatly stacked red and yellow boxes.
He lurched over to it, grabbing up one of the red boxes and opening it.
Inside were two heavy gauntlet-style gloves. Without hesitation, he crammed them onto his hands. Then he slammed the palms together and watched in silence as metal plating shot out from the gloves, zooming up his arms, over his back, down his body, and finally over his head. The plates clicked into place, and once the full-bodied armour had formed, a zap of electricity passed over it, sealing any cracks or holes.
This wasn’t the first time Carson had used an armour unit, and it wouldn’t be the last. Battle was part of his job.
He preferred, however, to use the specially crafted, uniquely designed armour sets the United Galactic Coalition heavy cruisers usually outfitted their security teams with. While the Farsight could manufacture one, Carson simply didn’t have the time. A fact he suddenly rued. He had wasted three perfectly good days where he could have taken his specifications, and spent hours perfecting a strong, snug-fitting set of the most powerful armour the United Galactic Coalition could manufacture.
But god dammit, he hadn’t for a second thought he would run into the Barbarians. And though he had considered the possibility of coming across Nida and the entity, he'd quickly realised that no matter what level of armour he was wearing, it wouldn’t matter. If the entity could hack sophisticated systems like the entire Academy computer, then the on-board processor of all Coalition armour would be an easy target.
Now he had several precious seconds to rue his decision.
Pulling a yellow box towards him, he opened it, and quickly turned it inside out. Then he selected the correct code, and stood back as the box morphed into a gun.
A hefty, heavy-duty plasma rifle that should be able to do more than a little damage to the Barbarians.
Then Carson stopped, briefly, to turn over his shoulder and stare at the view screen.
As he did, he swore he saw an enormous torpedo heading straight for the Farsight.
He locked his magnetic boots onto the floor just before the entire ship shuddered violently to the side.
Gritting his teeth, he swore through them, then he waited.
The computer ran through its damage report, and Carson grimaced at how many systems were down.
He’d hardly had this ship for three and a half days, and he’d already broken it. The Admiral would kill him. In fact, she would probably kill him twice, because not only would he lose the Farsight, he had already lost Nida.
. . . .
Nida.
That thought was far too uncomfortable to process, so he pushed it from his mind.
“Come on,” he said under his breath just as the computer warned him that all countermeasures were spent.
He half closed his eyes, latching a hand onto the wall just as the Farsight lurched so violently several armoury boxes fell from the cupboard, onto the floor, and scattered in every direction.
Then he heard it—that very specific sound that told you a Coalition ship was being boarded.
He’d heard it before, and it always had the exact same effect on him.
It froze him and moved him at exactly the same time. It stilled the emotional side of his mind, and forced his instinctual half into action.
Carson threw himself forward, locking the rifle against his shoulder and ducking his head close to its sight.
“Come on, you bastards,” he hissed, his voice coming out in a modulated drone, altered by the mic of his armour.
With another terrible shudder and one last warning from the computer, he realised the Barbarians had boarded.
He had no idea how many there would be, but he knew there was only one of him. So he could bet the odds were not on his side.
Flinging himself forward, he commanded the computer to lockdown all systems under a class VIII encryption code that could only be unblocked by him. Then he made it to the bridge doors and sealed them.
Though he’d once thought this ship was big, it now seemed as small as a prison cell.
He could hear boots, and he fancied he could even smell that distinct scent of Barbarian mercenaries. Unwashed bodies, dried blood, and pure, distilled hatred.
He did not stay in the corridor long; instead, he ducked into the main quarters. His stuff was still all over the floor and bed. A pair of standard, regulation grey nightclothes, several data pads he’d manufactured, and a pile of dirty dishes from the galley.
As silently as he could, he took up position beside the bed, ducking down low behind the girth of the mattress and grabbing a feather pillow as he did. With a good aim, he threw it until it struck the door and bumped off onto the floor.
Feather pillows were hardly standard in the Academy; he’d manufactured one on board. He hated sleeping with those ergonomic foam ones, and far preferred something that he could mould under his neck. And right now his particular proclivities were about to come in handy.
As he hunkered down and waited, he heard the sounds of the incursion. The running feet, the small explosions, the screams, and the continual warnings of the computer.
But none of it could trump how loudly his heart beat in his ears. It thumped and drummed and pounded like an entire army of warriors hammering against his skull and chest.
He ignored it though. He drew on his years of training and dived further and further into his instincts until he practically shut down the analytical, objective side of his mind.
Now he was nothing more than a set of ears, eyes, nostrils, and hands.
Seconds later the door to his quarters opened.
Immediately Carson shot the feather pillow, and the hot, blinding white bullet from his gun burst the outer casing of the pillow and set the feathers alight, causing them to rush up in a shouldering, and thankfully distracting, cloud.
Without waiting, Carson rolled to the side, firing again, and he was gratified to hear the heavy thump of a body.
Yet before he could cheer, there was a clink, clink, and he looked down to see a stun grenade roll into the room.
He shot it.
With barely a nanosecond to spare.
If it had been anybody else, maybe they wouldn’t have managed to do it, but Carson had spent an unknown number of hours practising his combat skills, and that included taking impossible shots.
Capitalising on the surprise, he dropped to his knees, rolling again, finally coming into line with the open door. As he punched to his feet, he ran through it, blasting away with his gun in a wide, wild arc.
He heard another thump, then a growl right beside his ear.
A Barbarian mercenary jumped towards him, pulling an enormous electrified knife from the sheath on his side.
Carson just had enough time to double back, then the blade came slicing towards him.
Though the armour he was currently wearing was good, a few strikes from that electrified blade, and he would feel it.
He'd also likely lose a limb.
The mercenary growled at him again, and even through his armour, Carson could smell the stench of the creature's breath. It didn’t just remind him of rotting meat; it had a foul, curdled-milk edge to it that made his stomach turn.
Doubling back again as the mercenary swiped for Carson’s head, he tried to get off a shot, but the mercenary was too close and the barrel of Carson’s gun was too long.
Though he could turn and run back i
nto his quarters, Carson didn’t want to be pinned down. He had one advantage: surprise.
There was another soft clink, clink, and in his peripheral vision, he saw another grenade tumble across the floor towards him.
The Barbarians were not a particularly caring bunch, and loyalty was not something they lived by. If one Barbarian could benefit by the sacrifice of another, then the sacrifice was made.
Reacting immediately, Carson shot at the grenade, but as he did so he gave the mercenary with the electrified blade an opportunity to strike, and strike he did. The man was not a Xerk. He was from a race called the Mascar, and he was enormous. Easily two-and-a-half-meters tall, he towered above Carson. Concentrated within the creature's enormous barrel-shaped chest and tree-trunk-like arms was astounding strength. Well, right now the alien used it to slash the electro blade as hard as it could into Carson’s arm.
Carson was forced to his knees as pain shot through his shoulder and deep, deep into his chest.
He screamed out, but that did not stop him from jerking forward and clutching both his hands around the hilt of the blade.
His gun clattered to the floor, bouncing off his knee and onto his boot.
With a terrifying, blood-curdling scream, the alien managed to rip the sword from Carson’s grip.
Then he brought it down towards Carson's neck.
Immediately Carson reacted. He flung himself forward and into the Mascar’s chest. He thrust forward with all the power his armour could give him, and it was enough to throw the alien off-balance. Then Carson dug his feet into the ground, pushed back, and flipped. His hands landed, one onto the ground and one over his gun, and as he flipped back onto his feet, he brought the gun up and shot.
The bullet landed dead centre and flung the mercenary against the wall.
Turning just as another two mercenaries rounded the corridor, Carson backed away, shooting as he did.
He was running out of time.
He had no idea how many Barbarians there were, but he could guess he hadn’t even dented their numbers.
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