The Voyager's bridge was abuzz with activity from men and women wearing pirate garb. All of them carried a sidearm pistol sidearm locked on the setting that creates smoking holes in uniform clothing. Twelve pirates aggressively walked throughout the bridge with a posture that compared only to professional football players walking into the locker room for a home game, and with every intention of winning, and a deadly mindset for their adversary. The view screen and tactical screen were abuzz with technical data from lower decks, and external sensor readings being routed from the right-wing sensor station. The ship was still on red alert, but the alarm had been deactivated because it was beginning to annoy the squadrons commanding officer, who was sitting in the captain’s chair, and had become somewhat comfortable in his new seat, leaning hard on his left side and propping his torso on his left elbow, donning a grizzly look on his face, recalling what was to come later today. This seat was better than the one he had on his cruiser, which was at a full stop a quarter of a million kilometers off the Voyager’s port bow, with its weapons and shields at full power, and scanning the space surrounding the ship’s location for as far as it’s sensors could detect: about a quarter of a sector, and tuned to be able to see through the nebula. Voyager’s weapons and shields would be fully operational before long. It wouldn’t look very good to Maddog to come aboard a massive and well-fortified ship that had no functioning weapons or shields. . . Besides, he wanted to add a second star to his rank so Maddog would give him his own fleet for some . . . business.
The cruiser was serving as the pirates’ primary early-warning beacon. At the first sign of trouble (like more Union ships showing up), every weapon system on every pirate ship—and captured Union ship—within communications range would be alerted, and then the pirates would make lots of debris out of whoever dared show up. His eyes traveled to the bottom of the bridge as he watched the long-range communications screen blink thrice. Within what seemed like seconds, the pirate at the station—a young male vying to prove his mettle as one of the pirates—pulled a printed document from his computer station and then made quick work of the messages’ decoding. He rushed the final product to him. The One-Star Admiral sitting in the Voyager’s captain’s chair snatched the document from the young rankless crewman’s hands iwth a ferocity that made the young crewman jump where he stood, noting the look on the one-star’s face. “This just came in from Maddog’s ship.” the fact the crewman didn’t call him ‘Sir’ made the one-star feel like drawing his sidearm and blowing the crewman across the bridge—but he held back and diverted his attention to the document. . .
“. . . Good. Maddog will arrive soon.” FINALLY! He snapped to the security stations where two pirates were scanning the ship for Union personnel. “SECURITY! PREPARE SHUTTLEBAYS ONE AND TWO for MADDOG’s arrival. WHY HAVEN’T I RECEIVED A REPORT FROM OUR TEAM FROM CARGO BAY TWO? WHERE ARE THE UNION PRISONERS!”
“They haven’t reported-in yet. I’m sending another team down to find out what’s going on.”
“TWO. MINUTES. And then I find a replacement for you.” he growled.
They knew what he meant, and began working twice as fast as before. The main computer was searching deck four. The pirate sitting where Aaen had been changed the scan settings to “Deep”. This would take a little more time than “Standard”, but it would tell them exactly where all of the Union personnel were at at that moment.
“What about the Union prisoners in the rest of the ship?” the One-Star asked sharply. Maddog wanted prisoners as part of their plan.
“Still in custody, and contained.” the pirate sitting at the deputy’s station replied nearly without missing a beat.
“Admiral. The second team has reached Cargo Bay Two. They report the lights are out, and there’s no sign of the first team that was down there, or the Union crew.”
The One-Star turned his head left sharply and sneered, grinding his teeth—
The Commander sharply gestured for the Deltas to fan out to the darkest-lit areas of the corridor. The footsteps ahead were getting louder and closer by the second. The red lights cast shadows against the bulkheads ahead and those around the corner to the right. In seconds, The Commander sighted six pirates blitzing down the middle of the corridor with their rifles up. They all took a sharp left turn—The Commander gestured for the Deltas to stand ready to engage. They took aim at the corner, following their targets as they got closer—
The Commander sharply gestured to fire. The corridor filled with the muffled red flashing booms as three of the pirates were struck variably center-of-mass and collapsed backward violently as though a long blunt object swung out and struck each of them below the chin. The other three pirates ducked and retreated around the curved corridor to the left, firing back.
The Commander ducked just in time to avoid a burning haircut; a second shot sent the deputy turning sharply into and slamming against a bulkhead behind him. His shoulder was smoking slightly and he covered his shoulder with his right hand, gritting his teeth. The Commander narrowly dodged a second shot and then snapped, took aim at the most exposed pirate and fired. The pirate flew backward from the shot’s impact and then slammed against a wall panel and then fell face-first to the deck, nearly motionless.
Aaen took aim and fired at the most concealed pirate. The shot struck the pirates’ rifle and it exploded in a flurry of sparks in the pirates hands. The pirate threw the weapon away and drew its side arm, breaking from cover and rushing at the Deltas. Aaen couldn’t get a clean shot from behind his cover, turning his head at The Commander. The Commander snapped and fired. The pirate back flipped forward and landed jaggedly, also nearly motionless.
“Clear!” The Commander pointed at Aaen and gestured for him to stay where he was; he repeated this process for the rest of the Deltas as he rushed to the deputy and examined the wound. “You’re okay. It just grazed you. The doc’ will be able to heal that real quick. Get up. Deltas, on me! Moving out! We’re going after the primary power grid.”
*****
Steve H. told Jordan Foutin, "You are the next Tom Clancy. You really are a gifted writer."
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