This story is intended for mature readers over the age of 13. It contains strong language and sugestive situations. Reader discrection is advised.
Gregory Smith slumped low in his seat; his upper body sprawled across the establishment's bar. In one fist he clutched a mostly empty bottle of un-named brandy. The other hung flaccid at his side. Every once in a while, a small spasm would shake his body. After the short theatric though, his body would always return to its limp state. Although the bar he sat in was busier than usual, no one took a seat to either side of him. Many refused to even look in his direction or glanced in his direction then quickly looked away. Even the bartender had learned to stay well clear. When forced to pass Greg by, he unintentionally moved a little faster. Not that Gregory Smith noticed any of it. In his small world only the bottle and his memories were real. Everything else seemed insubstantial and far away. Until someone chose to intrude.
"Hey stranger. You look a little lonely"
Greg's limp hand inched closer to his hip and his other moved the bottle closer, almost protectively. When these slow motions ended, his head rose, revealing red-rimmed eyes. They fixed on the gaudily dressed woman who posed next to him, her brilliant blue hair hanging far down her back.
"Lonely...no, just alone."
For a moment the woman seemed to pause, her practiced routine thrown off. But as with all professionals, she recovered quickly.
" Well... buy a lady a drink and you won't have to be," she hinted openly. As an added lure she leaned slowly forward, revealing a generous cleavage. Her lips moved into a practiced pout but her eyes remained mischievous. The red rimmed eyes blinked back slowly then returned to the bar.
"Maybe...if I buy a lady a drink...I can be alone again."
"Well surely..."
Greg moved with surprising speed, slapping away the prostitute's approaching hand. The other suddenly appeared at her throat. It tightened slowly but deliberately.
"Surely what? Surely I could use a friend?" His mocking tone raised a few heads in the bar but no one moved.
"...Uurrkk..."
"What? Surely I could use a companion?"
"...Uhhhnn..."
"Surely I could use a ****!" He threw the woman to the floor and turned from her as she gasped in a breath.
"No. All I need is another drink." He snatched a bottle from between a startled couple and walked towards the door. For a moment the bouncer, until now incongruous, stepped into Greg's way. But a look into the red-rimmed eyes stopped him. The bouncer nodded once and moved away. In moments Greg was gone.
Sleep was the worst time. No matter how drunk or sober, tired or not, the dream always came. Every night Greg fought to stay awake. Every night the same nightmare haunted him.
Flames. There were always flames. And the impenetrable smoke that suffused the burning room. The bridge. Hobbs Benkin lay across his console, blood streaming from his ears and eyes. In a parody of life his limbs would twitch or sway with the motion of the ship but his eyes never moved, never stopped staring at Greg, accusing him. Zack Feller still sat vainly at his board, screaming soundlessly, a jagged bar of metal plunged through his throat and torso. Though he never turned, his empty scream echoed forever in Greg's ears. And on the floor, looking as beautiful as she had the first time she had come to him on his old corvette, was Sarah Pittman. Her every feature was perfect, even peaceful. Her delicate lips were slightly open, as if drawing a gentle breath. Her hands were folded neatly across her chest. Her flawless burgundy hair, her one small pride, was haloed about her head, every strand placed perfectly. He reached towards her, wanting so much to touch her, to feel her warm cheek once more. But as his hand stretched the gulf between them, her eyes slowly opened.
Greg.
The words came from motionless lips. Greg strained to reach her, to pull her into his arms and let the fires take them.
Goodbye Greg.
No! He screamed in his mind, I swore I'd always be there! I swore I would be by your side!
Goodbye...Beloved.
No!
He could almost touch her. But then, like every night before, the heavy metal door clanged shut and only a tiny window remained. Through it he could see the three people that meant everything to him. The three people he swore to protect above all others. And they were falling into the distance. No, he was falling and they were being left behind. Now he could see the entire ship, his Dire Wolf. The Kestrel Frigate that he called his own. It was wreathed in light and shadow. He tried to scream, to shout his rage at the cruel fates. But now all he saw was light. A hideous light that swallowed everything and hid the world he knew. It stole the world he knew, stole it and replaced it with an endless hell. A hell with four walls, one small window, and a single, hissing radio that never spoke.
Gregory Smith woke quietly. Once, long ago, he would have risen screaming from the dream. But now the dream was a sick form of comfort. The only thing he had from his past life was a recurring nightmare. Without it...that couldn't happen. Without the dream, Greg Smith would cease to be.
With a groan, he levered himself from his small pallet and groped around for a shirt.
"Computer," he said quietly," give me a report."
Jump is 98% complete. All systems are in the green and an in-system trajectory has been plotted.
"Cancel it. I want to fly in."
Understood.
Greg finally found a shirt, which he pulled on quickly. The cold floors of the ship helped to shock him awake. His pounding headache helped further. It too was a welcome friend. After so many years experience, a hangover was no real impediment anyways.
Captain. We are leaving warp now. Orders?
"Bring up the shields and weapon systems. But not to combat levels. Better to look innocent."
Five steps led Greg from his room into the bridge of his ship. The Wounded Bitch was a Terrapin cargo hauler he had purchased just before it was scrapped. Fully half of its systems were older than he and the other half were self-installed and of questionable reliance. Even had it been new, the Terrapin was a bastard of creation. Two weak engines, a small crew area, and a single large cargo bay that had once belonged to another ship, a Leviathan. It was slow, unsteady, poorly shielded and under-armed. But it was a ship all the same.
Greg threw himself into the ratty captain's chair and set his hands on the worn controls. The Terrapin usually crewed 3 people but what money Greg had earned had gone into the ship AI that took care of many of the more mundane tasks. The thought of anyone else on the ship was painful.
Re-entry in 5.
Once, the idea of flying around in a cargo scow would have turned Greg's stomach. But 6 years of torment and failure had erased any prejudice. Things always change, he had been told. Turned out to be true.
Leaving Hyperspace.
The cold swirling blues and reds of hyperspace evaporated from the view screen and the bright stars of New Primus snapped into life.
"'Puter, contact the landing authorities and inform them of our mission and cargo. See if this can't be done fast."
Six hours later the landing authorities finally cleared the Wounded Bitch. Long since tired of waiting, Greg was once again sprawled on the tiny bed he called his own. Sleep threatened even with the addition of several shots of whiskey. And he was tired of fighting it...
Flames. There were always flames...
Captain?
Greg's eyes snapped open, adrenaline from the nightmare burning in his veins.
"What!"
Several fighters are approaching. They are broadcasting a Pirate IFF beacon.
"Raise the shields to combat levels. Time to intercept?"
Five minutes.
Greg grunted and hiked himself from bed. Without looking he opened the nearby closet and pulled out his combat armor. He quickly shrugged into the breastplate then strapped on the arm and leg protectors. Finally he grabbed his helmet and took it with him to the bridge.
"Where are they?"
Two of the ships have broken off and are moving into the rear quarter. The other is now approaching the forward arc. It will soon be in weapon range. It is broadcasting a hail.
"Put it on."
"The Wounded Bitch huh?" came a pleasantly gruff voice. "Sounds like a good name for that heap."
Greg remained silent.
"Listen pal, let's just get this over with. I'm going to sell you your life. 2,000 credits. How does that sound."
"Last I checked," Greg returned quietly, "it was only worth one five,"
"One five huh? Sorry Wounded Bitch, but my time's worth more than that."
The channel closed and the three fighters began to accelerate. Greg sighed and sat into his chair. Two of the oncoming fighters were of the Pirate Viper class. Fast, maneuverable, and well shielded for their size. The other was a well-used Lightning. Greg had always thought little of them. Where he came from, Lightning's were dangerous.
"I'm taking command Computer. Release all controls to me."
The two Vipers came in quickly from behind. Each constantly shifted their speed and direction to throw off the Terrapin's targeting computer. Experience made them confident. The Terrapin class mounted only a single turret, often a medium blaster. Fast passes along the horizontal axis of the ship often proved too much for the rotation mechanism. As they approached the three pirates carefully coordinated their assault.
"Scissor to port Three. We'll cross on the close side and draw his fire. One, you want the heavy run?"
"I'll take what he gives me," answered the Lightening pilot. Experience had also taught the pirate pilots that carelessness meant death.
Greg watched as the three fighters came in like the points of a triangle. With a flick he locked his medium turret on the left-most Viper in his aft quarter. It tracked silently and locked on. Then he sat back to wait.
The two Vipers swooped in perfectly. As one they opened up with their three nose mounted light blasters. The quick bolts of magnetically sealed ions flickered out into the Terrapin's shields. Slower, more powerful bolts arced back across space and spread upon the Viper's nose cone. But even as they struck, the fighter lifted on its right wing and accelerated. Its wing mate perfectly echoed it and they swept past the ship's rear, criss-crossing as they did. The turret tracked around but its bolts were now falling well behind the evading Viper. With the weapon firing after the fleeing fighter, the Lightning came straight in, blazing away with its own weapons. Slashes of green light pummeled the shields all along the Wounded Bitch's frontal arc. Then the Lightning was past, its afterburners flaring.
"No contest One, this guy's not putting up much of a fight. How do you want this done?"
"Form up and let's finish this. Feds could show up any time and I don't want to get chased off another kill."
Captain. A transmission from the planet requests your attention.
"Put it through."
"Terrapin Wounded Bitch, this is the Federation Destroyer Redundant. We are launching as we speak and can offer our assistance. Move your ship closer towards Port Arthur and hold tight. We'll be out of atmosphere in two minutes."
"**** off Redundant. I don't need help."
There was a long pause on the line. Outside the three pirate fighters were reforming in the aft quarter of the ship.
"I'm sorry...did that sound like a request? Merchant Terrapin, by the laws of the Federation I order you to move closer to Port Arthur. That is unless you want to deal with a Federal Destroyer as well."
Greg reached over and cut the channel. In space, the three fighters seemed to hesitate. Greg snarled and waited for them to choose.
"Fed destroyer coming up from Arthur, One. If the Terrapin moves that direction, we might not be able to finish it before the Dest is in range. What 'cha want?"
"Leave it. It ain't worth rumbling a..."
The pirate broke off as the Terrapin began to move. Towards them.
"Well...that's different."
"Captain, the merchant is moving his ship TOWARDS the pirates. Time to intercept is now five minutes."
The captain of the Redundant looked up. "Towards? Is this man insane? Give it all we got and ready a barrage of ion torpedoes. I want those pirates intact and helpless. But if you have to, take them down."
In space, the five ships all accelerated. The three pirates formed a tight wedge and rushed at the Terrapin. It, in turn, was slowly pushing its painfully lethargic mass as hard as possible to close with the pirates. Behind them all, a gleaming white Federation Destroyer struggled out of Port Arthur's atmosphere and set out towards the fight.
"Use caution Two and Three. If he ain't running then there's a reason."
"He's probably more afraid of the Feds than us," offered Two.
"Won't matter anyways. He's ours now," growled Three. The pilot gripped his flight yoke in eager anticipation. The Terrapin was slowly filling his screen. The medium turret, barely visible, was tracking endlessly between the three oncoming fighters, as if it could not decide which was the most dangerous.
Fool, the pilot thought. His fighter, the most damaged, was an obvious target. The idiot was too stupid to even take someone with him when he went. He tightened his finger on the trigger and carefully lined up. He never realized what his mistake was.
The façade of the Terrapin's cargo bay snapped open and three 100mm hypervelocity slugs screamed out. The first slapped the Viper's shields then broke through. As it went, it tore off the Viper's small wing. The second separated the ship from its engines by snapping its back. The third missed cleanly; though by that time it didn't matter much. The force of the two hits had splintered the entire frame of the tiny ship and spit them backwards. The concussion was enough to kill the pilot instantly.
"Break!" screamed the lead pilot as he yenked back on his yoke. Beside him the second Viper reacted instantly and rolled violently to the left. A 100mm shell skipped through space where it had just been.
"Captain, we just lost one of the pirate signals."
"Explanations?"
"Small caliber rail weapon no doubt. An energy weapon would have hulled it and a missile would have shown up on our sensors."
"Get me what information you can on that ship and its pilot."
"That ****er is going down!" screamed the Lightning's pilot. He glanced over his shoulder and sighted the dirty speck of gray that was the Terrapin.
"I'm with you One. No way those are turreted rail guns. That means he's helpless in the rear."
The two fighters went to afterburner and hooked to either side of the Terrapin. It tried to follow the Viper but its rotation was too slow to manage. Its silent turret tracked the spinning Lightning as it fought to come into the freighters aft quarter.
Not this time! The Lightning pilot screamed mentally.
The slowly rotating Terrapin was quickly losing its fight to face the Viper. Already the small ship was boring in. Fire poured from the three blasters in its nose, arching towards the larger freighter. The pirates howled in triumph as the Lightning came in directly behind the Terrapin and also opened up. Their howl turned to screams as the Wounded Bitch suddenly lit its afterburners and pulled from between them. The medium turret opened up and bracketed the Lightning with flame. The pilot was too surprised to react quickly and his shields failed in a brilliant sparkle. The heavy bolts of plasma bored into the ship's surfaces and touched off hydrogen fuel and solar compactors. The heavy fighter began to roll slowly, leaking burning gas.
Greg watched the burning fighter glide off into the distance. If one thing could be said for these Lightning's, they died well. Almost as well as the Vipers did.
"Last one," he muttered for no other reason than it seemed needed.
Captain.
"What."
Warhead warning.
"What!?"
Greg turned to his screens in time to see a massive ion torpedo cruise into the final Viper's aft quarter. At the last instant the ship tried to evade but the proximity sensor lit the warhead off and pummeled the small ship with waves of polarized ions. Lightning wreathed the small fighter and its engines died with a cough.
Good.
Greg locked his screen onto the helpless fighter and fired. The nickel iron shells hit the Viper dead center, ripping it apart.
"The Terrapin just gunned down the Viper Captain!"
"He did? This guy just tested the last of my patience. Disable him."
"Aye Sir!"
Greg watched the heavy torpedo approach. He slowly shut down his engines and de-activated his medium turret. The engines tooled down quickly, retro thrusters bringing the ship to a stop. As he finished, the heavy weapon impacted and turned everything black.
(This message has been edited by moderator (edited 03-12-2003).)
