Chapter 125: Chapter 37: A Pirate Ship

Somewhere off the Stardancer’s bow, against the onyx star-speckled canvas of space, lurked the approaching ship.

An amorphous shape grew in size, blotting out more and more twinkling dots of distant suns. The Stardancer’s searchlights converged on it. Small details emerged from the darkness. Crane arms peeked from the underside storage alcoves. A rugged hull strewn with the viscera of other ships—strips of metal, fluid stains, and shards of shattered composites.

The shape drew close enough to reveal the insect-like vessel’s identity—a Phaeton-class deep space tug named the Trusty Terran. A favorite workhouse of salvage operations, they were a common sight on the more remote trade routes traversing the galaxy. Where this particular ship differed from its brethren was in its oversized engines and a pair of cutting lasers modified to be offensive weapons tucked into the underbelly.

The ship swept its laser-like searchlights across the Stardancer. Specialized hardware for scavenging operations. Or, in the case of this particular ship, hunting for prey.

Standing in the cargo bay near the main airlock, Dash watched the ship grow larger on the lock’s display. A sense of dread tugged at his insides, like those scavenger arms pulling apart a helpless freighter. He breathed out heavily, the reality of what he’d brought upon the crew when he took Milia aboard sinking in hot and heavy. “I should’ve known.”

Standing guard nearby, Draug asked, “Should’ve known what?”

Beside Dash, Gaius stared at the ship and blinked heavily, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Please don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.”

“What is it?” Wesley asked.

Across from Draug, Henrik said, “Shut up, all of you!”

Dash shifted his eyes to Draug, then Rosalie and Brock. “I should’ve known that your new captain is a pirate.”

Draug’s eyes widened, its snout wiggling in distress. Brock’s brow tightened slightly, Rosalie shook her head. “That can’t be true.”

Henrik said, “She’s licensed. She’s legit.”

“And she used her legitimate status to her advantage. She’s gone bad.” Dash flicked his head toward the display. “The proof is right there.”

The ops crew exchanged weary glances, then looked to their new captain. Milia stood at the head of the group, her back to them while she fidgeted with a pair of restraints. She paused as if she sensed the eyes of her new crew upon her. “I’ve been called many things,” she said, and turned around. “Pirate is a recent addition. I prefer to call it deep space entrepreneur.”

“Whatever you call it doesn’t change the fact that you profit off the desperate and dead,” Dash said, his voice laced with disgust. Somehow, his opinion of her lowered.

Milia’s icy gaze settled on him. “And delivering military supplies is any different? Or taking so-called refugee contracts, transporting forcibly displaced people? Don’t get all high and mighty on me. You have just as much blood on your hands as I do. Our operations extracted creds from the corporations and governments.”

“I’ve seen the news reports. The slaughter of entire crews, the sentient trafficking—”

“That wasn’t us! But I’m not going to deny cleaning up the mess left behind. At least we bring it back to make something new.”

“Like more ships for you to prey upon.”

Milia approached Dash. She pointed to his wrists. “If you have it all figured out, then how come you’re the one wearing the real restraints?”

Dash said nothing, eyes fixated on the display. Milia returned to the head of the group. On the display, one of the scavenger ship’s arms extended outward for the docking procedure. Caution lights flashed in the status strips along the cargo bay and airlock bulkheads.

“Where are we?” Gaius whispered.

“I don’t know,” Dash said. They hadn’t displaced from Atan, he knew that for sure. Milia had kept them in the same compartment—in between supervised work shifts—for the majority of the trip. Based on the near-constant thrust, save for the midpoint flip for deceleration, it meant somewhere in system but far from Praxa. “Has to be somewhere in outer Atan.”

There was a dull thud as the arm gently contacted the hull. “Docking bridge pressurization commencing,” the ship announced.

“Everyone, prepare for boarding,” Milia said, and gripped Dash’s elbow. “Except you.”

Gaius and Wesley looked to Dash with concern, but the ops crew ushered them away. Henrik paused, peering between his new and old captain. Milia nodded. Henrik scowled at Dash coldly, then left them alone.

Milia said to Dash, “You understand what to do?”

“Yes,” Dash answered. “I’m to present you to your old captain after you failed another mutiny attempt, this time against me.”

“And if you try to tip Rakton off, or any other tricks?”

“Then one of my crew will shoot me.”

“One of my crew,” she corrected. Her eyes flickered over Dash’s face, reading him. “I want to be clear. Helping me is the only way you and your friends stay alive. If we fail and end up as prisoners, I promise you’ll meet a very unpleasant end. The fact that I forced you to do it won’t matter one bit.”

“I understand. I know the type. But it doesn’t mean I feel great about participating in Rakton’s murder.” He glanced down at her sleeve. “Especially using one of my weapons.”

“You’ll get over it. And if you knew Rakton, you’d feel the same way I do,” Milia said. She glanced over her shoulder, as if to ensure their privacy. Henrik stood nearby, but facing away from them. Her head swiveled forward again, her face softening unexpectedly. “I found the Auturia campaign ribbon. The Wounded in Action badge, and the Bronze Sun medal.” She paused, gauging his reaction. “You were really there?”

Dash felt his composure slip, and the muscles of his face rippled. The ghosts of the past reached out from the fog to which he’d banished them, cracking his composure. He had to force his next words through his constricted throat. “I was.”

“I was barely a teenager when it happened, living on some backwater station. I didn’t know anyone personally, but remember crying for hours.” She studied him, a hint of what looked like sympathy on her face. “It must’ve been hard to hear it was gone after all that you went through to free it.”

“Hard?” Dash said. Everything about Auturia had been hard, starting with finding the planet. The channel route to get to the system was complicated, found only after tedious probe exploration on behalf of the Human Coalition.

Then there was the planet itself. The middle child in its system, the pristine world lay untouched for millennia. Fertile and flush with resources, it spun through time, blissfully unaware of the extraterrestrial bloodshed about to take place in the heavens above. Soon after its discovery was leaked, governments and entities fought over settlement rights—turning the planet’s high orbit to a graveyard of ships and sentients. That the fledgling Commonwealth survived the turmoil was a miracle. Cycles of ceasefires followed, the diplomacy as fierce as the conflicts themselves.

The turning point came when the Human Coalition dropped—in secret—a “colonization outpost” there, in the mistaken belief that no one had the fortitude to start a full out war over the planet. Their hubris was punished as the first colony ship—the Ferrulian’s Guiding Light—began to land. The surprise attack came, and hundreds of thousands died. A culture wiped out.

Everything about that place was hard.

Except the mud.

Soft and sticky, like it was designed to trap anyone dumb enough to move through it. The vile muck squished beneath him as he ran for his life, pulling at his boots as he choked on the stench. He fell countless times, and barely pulled himself free, heaving from exertion and the rotten scent. On and on, the enemy at his heels, the muck stretched endlessly before him. Stuck to his uniform, smeared into his hair, squished against his face—as if the planet itself wanted to consume him.

Dash swallowed, his insides quivering. “That planet was one of the rare beacons of life, and yet, all anyone could do was fight over it.” He paused, readying words he’d never said aloud. “Sometimes I imagined what it would be like if no one could have it.”

Milia looked at him, through him. “I want you to know this isn’t personal.”

Dash tried not to laugh. “It’s funny how the people who say that are always right in the middle of screwing you over.”

The softness in Milia’s face vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “This happened to you because you’re a lousy captain. You’re not getting your ship back. If you cooperate, maybe you can have a future after this. I’ll drop you off somewhere decent. You can pick up a gig as a crewmember. Then you won’t have to deal with the trappings of being a captain anymore.” She removed his restraint, then handed him Betsy. “Unloaded, of course.”

Dash looked over his pistol, her heft comforting in his grip. He slipped Betsy into her holster on his hip. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I crossed a pirate once.” He pointed to the faint scar. “I’m lucky I got away.”

“Then you better make sure I succeed,” Milia said, and nodded her head toward the docking airlock.

Dash glanced around the cargo bay, wondering if it would be the last time he saw it. He joined the others in the airlock—Milia right behind him—and waited.

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Waited to board a pirate ship.

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Dash stood at the front of the crew inside the Stardancer’s airlock. Beyond, the docking bridge gently hissed as it finished pressurizing with the scavenger ship. He always thought of deep space interfaces as dicey propositions at best. Freighters were made to dock with stations or habitats, not other ships in deep space. The flimsy docking bridge did little to disabuse him of such deep-seated prejudice.

The feel of Betsy on his hip brought a false sense of security. Unloaded, it was nothing more than a small club. And the imminent bloodshed to come reminded him that even repurposed it would be of no use facing the wrong end of a loaded gun.

Rakton had insisted Dash lead his team aboard. He’d expected no less. Good instincts were the bare minimum required of a captain to survive the hostile existence of pirate life. It had to be rare to have one’s would-be mutineer returned like a kill-gift from a feline. Though he knew, like everything else lately, this period post-Auturia had even pirates changing their way of life.

Dash tapped the panel. The outer airlock door hissed, then opened. He stepped into the bridge, and gripped the handhold as he entered zero-g. 

He paused, staring at the open hatch ahead. Some part of him balked as if he had a choice whether to proceed. It was tempting to denigrate this self-deception, but if he was able to convince himself it was of his own free will, then he could convince Rakton. Milia would get her revenge. Then Dash would get a chance at his.

Milia floated behind him, restraints locking her wrists together. The rest of the crew trailed. Dash guided himself across the bridge. Despite his years in space, he was never comfortable in zero-g. He looked out each viewport as he passed, watching for any nefarious activity from the scavenger ship. The few crane arms he could see remained coiled against the ship, their powerful cutting and collection tools dormant.

He stopped at the Terran’s outer hatch, reoriented himself, and stepped inside. The gravity field pulled him to the deck. The airlock was larger than the Stardancer’s by design, for salvage crews often included bulky bots. The interior had seen heavy use. Scuff marks and small dents marred the walls, floor, and ceiling. Flaky brown spatters decorated the airlock’s banal white paint job. Dash suspected it was dried blood. 

The rest of the crew made it in, and the outer hatch closed.

With the airlock near capacity, Milia had to stand close behind Dash. He could hear her deep breaths and sense her heightened state. He focused on projecting his “victorious captain” aura. Milia’s success was key to his.

The inner hatch opened to reveal a loaded cargo bay, smaller than the Stardancer’s. A dozen rough-looking Humans stood in a loose line in the center of the space. Most were lean and nondescript, save for a pair of oversized brutes. Behind them, valuable ship components—bridge stations, replacement parts, fuel cells—lined the bay. All their utilities held stains that even nanoscrubbers couldn’t remove. Dash spotted a few missing items among them: teeth, digits, part of an ear, and even an eye. Besides pistols, their utility harnesses were adorned with various trinkets stolen from pillaged ships.

The trophies left no doubt they were pirates.

In the center of the group, a young man stood abreast of a salvaged captain’s chair. It was torn from a luxury yacht, judging by the ornate wood decor. He was waif thin with large, soulful eyes adorned by smoky eye shadow. And seated behind him on the chair, grimacing at Dash with wild eyes, Captain Rakton was not at all what Dash expected.

The plump woman’s meaty arms lay on the armrests, exposing colorful tattoos. Her short hair, dyed jet black, spiked outwardly behind her ears. Her eyes bore into him from behind puffy eyelids. Despite the discomfort, Dash kept his mouth shut in accordance with tradition. The visiting captain waited to be addressed.

“I don’t have all fucking day,” she said, apparently not bound to such traditions.

Dash cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m Captain Anderton, ma’am. You may call me Dash if you wish.” 

She pressed on hand on one of her ample breasts. “Captain Rakton.”

“Request permission to come aboard.”

“Granted.”

Dash stepped further into the hold. He made for a spot a few meters short of Rakton—as Milia had instructed—when the man in front held up a hand.

“That’s far enough,” her boyish, not-so-archetypal bodyguard said.

Dash stopped short. Milia took her position behind his shoulder. He could sense her annoyance, but there was nothing he could do about it. The rest of the Stardancer crew formed a line behind them.

The two crews faced each other like ancient armies in pre-battle formation. The bay was silent save for the hum of the air scrubbers and the swish of recycled water in pipes. 

Rakton looked Dash up and down. One brow arched high. She dismissed him with a subtle shake of her head and shifted her suspicious gaze to her former first mate. “Guess you didn’t learn your lesson. You aren’t as smart as I remember.”

“You’re fatter than I remember,” Milia sneered.

Rakton chuckled heartily. “Still got a wise mouth, I see.” She directed her attention to Dash. “So, she decided she was better than you too?”

“Something like that. It’s unfortunate. I think Milia would’ve been a really good first mate.”

“She was, when she was loyal.” Rakton ran her hand down the arm of the bodyguard standing abreast of her. His eyes twitched at the touch, then settled into back into a dull haze. He was hopped up on something, that much Dash knew. “Mylo here took her place. He’s no Milia, but he’s getting better though.” She paused and smacked him on the butt. “At many things.”

Dash pressed his lips together lest he make a face. He sensed movement in his peripheral and saw Milia seemingly squirm with contempt next to him. The cues took a moment to form into a realization. The thought that this entire thing could be about jealousy over some love triangle was both infuriating and revolting at the same time. He noticed the pirate crew staring at him and snapped out of it.

“It’s all an act on her part. She’s biding her time until she can shoot you in the back,” Rakton said. She stood, her body mostly hidden behind her bodyguard. Her hand traced from one of his shoulders to the other. “You wouldn’t do that, Mylo?”

“No, Captain,” Mylo squeaked out.

Dash gripped his belt with each hand, shifting into negotiating posture. “Let’s get to business then. Milia did you wrong, and I’m bringing her back to you at some effort and expense. Seeing as how important this is to you, we should discuss the terms of a reward.”

Rakton peeked out from behind Mylo. Milia shifted forward in the slightest, now in line with Dash. He glanced at her and saw her face was flushed. Rakton continued to stare from behind Mylo, like an obnoxious child mocking her.

“And what are your terms?”

“I believe some sort of financial compensation is in order.”

Rakton’s brow slowly narrowed. “Why should I pay you for trash?”

“Given the headache Milia has caused us, I figured you would want her alive,” Dash said. He summoned the strength to utter the next words. “It’s no fun shooting a corpse full of holes.”

“You’d be surprised,” Rakton said, a maniacal smile on her face.

“If you wish to negotiate in private, I’d be willing to do so.”

“No need. Tell me a number.”

Dash peered over the scavenger crew. They stared back, hostility gleaming in their eyes. He had a hard time believing that they wouldn’t gun down the Stardancer crew as soon as Milia took out Rakton, but he had no choice but to press on with the plan. He told Rakton the number, as Milia had instructed.

Rakton rubbed her chin, nodding in thought. She turned her suddenly cold-blooded gaze to Dash. The sight made his stomach drop.

“Here’s my counterproposal,” she said, and reached around Mylo with a pistol in hand. Milia had enough time to pop off the unlocked restraints and extend her sleeve gun—Betsy’s little sister, Dorothy—before Rakton fired. The shot struck Milia in the upper body. She shuddered—air escaping her lungs in a pained and rageful exhalation—and dropped.

Dash instinctively went for his weapon, before he reminded himself it was unloaded. His only option was to freeze.

Rakton pointed her pistol at him—her crew drawing their weapons too. Of the ops crew, only Brock managed to match their aggression. When he saw no one else had joined him, he swore and held up his hands. Rakton stepped around Mylo, twirling her pistol around a stubby finger. Her eyes lowered to Milia’s unconscious form as she snickered in glee. Then she focused on Dash.

“On second thought, there’s no need to discuss terms,” he said. “We’ll be on our way now.”

She tilted her head and flashed her horrible smile. “No, Captain Anderton, I’m afraid you won’t.”

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