From Here to Everywhere

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. It was a stellar paradox, as far as Izak Marlan was concerned, for how did 'they' know? It was all well and good to accept the science behind it all – that sound waves vibrate molecules in the air, so when there is no air for the waves to interact with how can sound possibly exist? – but in order to test that idea, really test it, surely someone without a vacuum suit on needed to be out there calling to someone else without a vacuum suit on. They would only have a few time units to register anything, of course, because exposure to hard vacuum would soon be fatal. Who would volunteer for such a thing?

Izak slumped deep into his flight chair, the control boards before him serving as a temporary footstool, and sighed. If he was thinking of things like that, he must be bored! Still, while Izak accepted that waiting for the merchandise was all part of the job he had been waiting for numerous cycles now, far more than normal. Maybe he should sack it off and go home. There were a thousand other things he could be doing.

Izak gritted his teeth and forced himself to wait a little longer. He had endured more than his fair share of boredom in his existence – there was only so much to do on a spacecraft big enough for one being and cargo – and when the merchandise was not on board there was even less to do. A jupe court would fit nicely in the hold, but the computer’s simulations held limited excitement and another live player was truly needed to pose any real challenge. Besides, where would the equipment go once the Crusader was fully loaded?

Endless empty hours travelled from his future into his past and Izak let them all go by. It was a small price to pay when considering that this was where the big money was to be made. Time wasted now would be repaid tenfold once he was rich enough to get out of the business, but for now Izak continued to bear the solitude that his line of work forced upon him.

That itself was no problem, for Izak had never been one to get on well with others. Even at school he was a loner, always preferring his own company. Despite his surly features, thin lips that had forgotten how to smile and eyes soulless black holes that forever sought ways to take advantage of any situation, quite a few of the other youngsters had attempted to get close to him. They soon changed their minds at Izak’s hostile companionship, quickly losing the desire to do what he wanted when he wanted; the ideas of compromise and sharing were as valueless to the young Izak then as they were still.

The only person Izak trusted was himself and he held that premise of independence close to his heart. His ship’s living accommodation was spartan and cramped, but the discomfort was necessary. Starship luxuries were costly, both for the area they occupied and for the power consumed to run them, requiring additional fuel cells that took up more room, and so on. A small craft was a small target with higher speeds and greater manoeuvrability, things impossible to sacrifice when evading others who sought the Crusader’s destruction – other pilots who plied his trade, vicious alien creatures with similar technology, security enforcement agencies, and the innocent starships he attacked. Ship-to-ship combat was commonplace to those who dodged the more law-abiding systems, and most of the planets of the galaxy’s outer rim systems had no official police force as protection from the likes of himself. Izak took full advantage of that for it was in those places where business was booming. Izak had the blood of many innocent, and not so innocent, beings on his hands.

He did not care. Business was business; money was money. The only way he could live the life of luxury later was to obtain money now in vast quantities. But robbery was not Izak’s forte; he was no simple thug. Slave markets were rife at home and creatures of different species demanded a high price, which made the extra distance worth travelling.

Everything but life support was disengaged whilst Izak's ship poised silently above the magnetic pole of the nearby planet. Caution bordering on paranoia provided the security Izal felt was necessary to be certain nothing would detect his ship, unless it passed within visual range, of course, but by then it would already be too late for any witnesses.

Izak’s legs flew from his console and his seat took him instantly to the Crusader’s controls, the pilot deck around him awash with explosive sound and crimson light. With practised movements, Izak silenced the proximity alarm and powered up his ship with two easy flicks of his digits. Engines and weapon systems came on-line within moments, the energy output counters steadily increasing as the circuitry came to life.

Yellow threads of laser fire darted past Izak’s cockpit as the Crusader dropped toward the huge, many-ringed gas giant that sat indifferently below. Izak’s attacker darted by overhead and quickly shrank to the size of a star, chasing the rays of deadly energy that would surely have meant the Crusader’s destruction had Izak been any less responsive.

The four Maelstrom XP600 thrusters located at each corner of the Crusader's rear quarters glowed white hot with incinerating radiation, allowing Izak’s craft to leap after the other ship, dual-barrelled Eliminator cannons blazing madly. With the element of surprise lost, Izak’s antagonist sent over a message.

“Izak,” the comm-channel spat the venom lacing the voice. “How do you always know when I’m zeroing in?”

Izak smiled, shaking his head in something approximating admiration. Kyjest didn’t know when to give up. The creature had been the only member of his breed pool to escape Izak’s ingenious net of entrapment, the only one not to walk in chains to a new master. How the limited intelligence of the mass of tentacles had found a weakness in the slaver’s plan and exploited it remained a mystery. Izak’s credit boost had been for five individuals plus a fat bonus per extra individual. Losing one of those individuals aggrieved Izak no end, but payment was made, the merchandise transferred, and Izak had to suck it up and move on. It happened.

Their stellar paths had crossed many times, Kyjest becoming a constant thorn in Izak’s side. Couldn’t the midnight-skinned creature just accept its own good fortune and enjoy the freedom his family could not, instead of repeatedly trying to avenge its lost kin? Most of their encounters had been brief skirmishes, an exchange of laser fire before Izak withdrew into nulspace with stock secured and a trade arranged. There was no need to risk a lucky hit rupturing his hull. This time, Izak had been waiting too long for his next target before this unexpected company turned up and he was hungry for action. Crippling the enemy ship and turning the pilot into profit was an abandoned tactic this time; Izak was out for blood.

The firing stud of his control stick clicked eagerly, releasing silent red bolts of hot light through the void toward their erratically moving target, each one seeking to latch on like a starving leech. Only expert piloting allowed the agile craft of the alien to evade those greedy gobbets. Izak had to admit Kyjest was skilled, but perhaps it was time to test just how skilled he was.

Izak closed quickly on Kyjest’s tail, his shots going wide as the empty expanse between them diminished. Izak could almost feel the over-confidence bubbling out from his victim’s starship as Kyjest’s reverse thrusters fired, sending his ship quickly to the bottom of Izak’s forward viewscreen as if striking an invisible wall.

If Izak's responses had been less than perfect Kyjest’s circular craft would have shot beneath The Crusader, fired up its engines and given chase, but Izak was more than experienced in ship-to-ship combat. As soon as the other's craft had begun its manoeuvre Izak instinctively pushed his control stick forward, enough to dip The Crusader’s nose cone into a forward spin that matched the speed at which his enemy passed below him.

A small smirk of satisfaction slid across Izak’s face as endless streaks of artificial lightning ate through the shielding of the enemy ship. One punched merrily through the armour plating behind Kyjest’s cockpit like an inquisitive child looking for something new to play with. Another caught hold of the stabilising fin on the rear of Kyjest’s craft and threw it into space, pulling it apart at the same time. More malfunctions mushroomed into vacuum as sparks danced across the top of Kyjest’s hull.

The panicky voice of compromise came over Izak’s speakers and were soon silenced as the pirate sent more lethal lances of laser fire thudding into the disabled ship. Bright bursts of scattered energy blotted out the stars momentarily, but as the craft disappeared into atoms so too did they. Izak was already returning to his vigilance above the planet’s polar region, powering down all non-essential systems. He scanned for any sign of incoming traffic.

It was not uncommon for inhabited planets, such as the one below him, to harbour small mercenary agencies, private companies set up and paid for by the planet’s population so that they had some form of protection against hostilities. A space battle, even as brief as the one Izak had just ended, produced enough signals to alert the authorities to an outsider's presence and could even have registered his ship as a considerable threat to the people of the planet. Izak was neither equipped or prepared to fight a fleet from such an organisation, but neither was he going to give up after all the time invested in his intended target’s capture.

After a short period of intense scrutiny Izak was convinced that there would be no pursuit craft investigating the orbital disturbances. Relief escaped his lips in a heavy breath of air and he allowed himself to relax a little.

It was twenty time units later when the Coregor Class Luxury Liner, arcing gracefully through the gas giant’s atmosphere with a trail of frozen vapour in its wake, crawled into sensor range.

Izak’s attention was drawn fully to the craft, his pupils dilating with greed. He licked his lips in anticipation. This was better than what he had come for – a freighter named Star Leopard – and carried far more lucrative merchandise. The possibilities swam inside his brain, threatening to drown him. He’d never gone for anything as big as this before, but restlessness had been dancing at the edges of his mind for a while now. The longer he stayed here the more chance there was of being detected. Star Leopard had not turned up yet – he may even have missed it during the fight – and the opportunity was too great to abandon. Early retirement lurked tantalisingly close.

Tweaking the controls of his Ultra-Tech 5000 Sensor Relay Station, Izak probed the oncoming ship for armaments. There were none, but the good news ended there. A cluster of four Wasp Class starfighters, hugging close to their escort’s flanks as if it were a protective parent, glared dangerously red. Izak nodded; it was not an uncommon sight.

The Wasps were quicker and more manoeuvrable than the Crusader, though not as heavily armoured. One shot would send the pilots of those ships into infinity and Izak would readily engage a couple, concentrating on one whilst the other’s small lasers burned ineffectively against the Crusader’s thick hide, but four? Izak shook his head, reaching out to turn off his sensors to resume his wait for the Star Leopard.

He stopped himself quickly as the liner banked towards one of this sector’s many lunar satellites, the fighters peeling away from the massive ship like discarded toys. Another smile stretched across Izak’s face – this has been a good day, he thought – and malicious intent rose within his breast. It was now totally defenceless and a prime target for the taking. Once within the moon’s gravity well, on-board systems would be scrambled by magnetic distortions and any messages transmitted to the planet would be indecipherable to whatever port was listening. Assistance from the starport would never arrive on time. This was a cruise through the stars. Intercept parameters came through on his computer screen seconds later, pinpointing the exact angles from which to strike. But was it too easy? Seeds of doubt took root in his mind.

Why did it head toward the moon? Why not just chart a course to circumvent it? Surely the captain knew nulspace was out of the question with the satellite so close. Small units of time sped past, taking with them dreams of a glorious future. Izak needed to act now, or he would lose his chance.

A second blip appeared on his scope, rising swiftly from the surface of the planet, its trajectory showing it on course to a safe entrance into nulspace away from the nearby grey rock. It would be beyond the moon in a few short time units, beyond Izak’s range of attack. It was a more compact vessel than the liner that hobbled out toward the moon. Was it Star Leopard? That was a guaranteed credit boost – a small one – but with a buyer ready and waiting. What if it wasn’t? Had he missed it? The black mass that passed for Izak’s heart throbbed in uncertainty. If he went for the smaller craft it may escape, and then he would not have time to rally and return for the liner – such a rare gift in this ungiving universe.

The Crusader’s stealth shields came on as its thrusters blazed to maximum, shooting after the sloth-like ship – great risk brings great reward, Izak assured himself. That’s why he was in this business after all. The stealth shields would mask his approach from standard sensor sweeps, but they would have to be dropped in order to engage the target for they warped his own targeting sensors enough to provide difficulties. The shields' drain on the power generators was enormous, preventing sustained firepower and causing energy deflectors to fluctuate. Despite the drawbacks, the shields were still a worthwhile investment. Especially for times such as these.

The liner’s image grew in the viewscreen and, once within weapons range, Izak flipped a switch, charging up his laser banks with energy siphoned from the stealth shields. His sensor readings detected acknowledgment signals from the prey before him, a loan orlat foal bleating pathetically for help against the leaping kroad.

“Cry all you want,” Izak gloated. “They cannot hear you.” Once again, red streaks of super-heated light split vacuum in two.

Izak’s targeting computer registered five direct hits on the liner’s starboard side as he raced past, crippling the vessel. Its engines, once glowing white with carbonising energy, sputtered and died as that energy was vented into space via ruptured conduits. Its aft quarter slewed to port under Izak’s battery and loss of control in the bridge. Lifeboats jettisoned from each side of the liner like morset fleas abandoning their dying host.

Izak whooped in joy at his success and transferred power from his weapons and shields into the tractor scoop attached to the fore of the Crusader’s hull. Green lights indicated its readiness to facilitate the new ‘guests’, and only when Izak decelerated to allow its greedy grasp to pull his victim in did he realise that the liner had directed its call for help not to the the planet below but toward the moon itself, to the only ship close enough to hear it.

The iron-grey bulk of an Interceptor Class Attack Craft emerged from over the moon’s horizon. Four torpedos had already detached from their moorings on its throat and were heading toward the Crusader, unerringly accurate.

Izak wondered if anybody would hear his scream as his ship was vaporised under the onslaught.

* * * *

“Call coming through, Captain.”

“We haven’t time for ‘thank you’s’, ensign,” Captain Ballo Kor declared stiffly. “Send them the usual comms.”

Before the young officer could finish a swift, “Aye, sir,” and carry out his orders, the captain of Titan Station’s resident Interceptor held up a hand. “Belay that, ensign.” The liner's captain had put her ship, her crew, and herself in danger. Was it that she deserved something more than the standard military brush-off bullshit, or was it that he wanted to see if the rumours of the woman's beauty were true? More the latter than the former, if he were being honest with himself. “Put it through,” Kor said at last.

Ensign Conner nodded an affirmative and proceeded to flick a few switches. While one switch erased the original message from the communication desk’s terminal, the other channelled static-scarred words through the captain’s chair speakers.

“This is Captain Harwent to Captain Kor. I was beginning to think you weren't going to show up.”

Ballo sighed, lamenting the absence of heart-felt gratitude yet another rescue should elicit. Still, in Kor's experience luxury liner captains weren't the most accommodating when it came to offering thanks, the silver spoon they were born with seemingly stuck up their ass more often than not. The captain's elbow took his weight on the chair’s left arm as he drew nearer to the screen that flipped up from the end of the seat's arm, battle-hardened eyes analytically narrow. An eyebrow lifted; the rumours he had heard weren't as outlandish as he had imagined.

It was a small picture, but it was enough to stir long abandoned feelings in a region of the captain’s body he had believed redundant for some time. He shifted in his chair, easing the gathering tightness, and tweaked the image-enhancer to get a better look at the other captain's round face.

“This is Captain Kor of Steel Tiger,” he said, the usually hard edge to his voice softening. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain Harwent.”

Peach-sweet lips possessed a smile absent from the woman's hazel eyes, and Kor wondered briefly what her problem was. Most likely disappointed there was no square-jawed hero with outsized pecs for her to fantasise about in bed that night. Ignoring her ill-concealed disgruntlement he continued, “Sol Control had reports of an alien slaver working around Saturn. We needed something big to lure him out of his hiding place. You were the only ship in dock that fit the bill.”

Her forced smile wavered. Captain Kor could see the sneer fighting to break through. “I’m glad to have helped, of course, but since you mentioned bills . . .”

Ballo Kor wished then that he had sent the usual comms after all. “Do not worry, Captain. Sol Control will make suitable compensation. Steel Tiger out.”

“Channel cut, Captain,” said Ensign Connor, much to the captain’s relief.

* * * *

“Channel cut, Captain,” said Comm Officer Saren Firge, and the image topped with hair like iron grass vanished from the main viewscreen. With it went the smug smile that had just been visible through a Christmassy beard, along with the small eyes glazed by self-importance and the impossibly thin-lipped mouth uttering platitudes it obviously wasn't used to voicing. The muscles of Alita Harwent’s jaw ached. Why did she always get assholes to talk to? Either steroid-flushed Star Force wanna-be’s, who expected every woman to swoon in their presence, or grumpy old bastards who should have quit years ago. At least Captain Kor retained enough decency to thank her to her face, even if those thanks were half-hearted and distracted.

She had put everything on the line for the greater good – that alien slaver had to be taken care of – and her ship had indeed been suitable bait, but when it came to asking for something in return, well, she would get more out of Pluto's moon. Was it really too much to ask for? Thin fingers uncurled from a delicate fist like a flower blooming at winter’s end, and long strands of black hair were pushed out of simmering hazel eyes. She tried to disperse her increasing frustration through clenched teeth without much success.

“Engineering?” she snarled, still full of impotent ire and looking for someone small and insignificant to take it out on. The voice that answered sounded as though the twenty-five metres of cable separating the bridge from the engine room was actually in miles.

“Here, Ma’am.”

“I want a full damage report by 1900 hours ship time.” She could hear the groans, complaints and insults echoing in the background, but she ignored them. “Absolute specifics must be included, right down to the last detail.” She needed to make sure the compensation covered every scratched circuit board and fried wire. Her head turned sharply to the left and up to the face of the man beside her – Claymore, wasn’t it? – and barked, “Check the remaining lifeboats for malfunctions. Recall what you can and log those that are missing.” She ignored the slight crease in the man's brow and didn't wait to hear the affirmation of her order before directing her ire upon her next target: Officer Firge.

“Get us back to Saturn Central. Tell them I want my lifeboats back – every one of them! – and in pristine condition too, like they were before they jettisoned. Sol Control can shell out for every cracked solar panel on those downed ‘boats, and every shorted-out circuit. We’ll have a new lick of heat paint on the burn-boards, too.”

Stiff with determination and returned confidence, Alita Harwent pushed herself out of her captain's chair and made for the back of the bridge. “I’m in my ready room. Claymore, you have the bridge.”

The first officer, Malden Frost, looked over to the white epaulettes of Arren Claymore’s medical uniform. The two men shared an understanding nod.

* * * *

“So many names,” Alita reflected bitterly. She never was very good with names. The ship’s crew roster of fifty flashed before her gaze once again, and one of the lines of identification caught her attention. Her insides flipped and twisted, and a quake of embarrassment rattled her bones.

Damn. If Claymore was the ship's doctor, why the hell was he on the bridge? At least she had got the right name to the right face! She shook her head to clear the fog and continued up the roster, looking for the name of the man she should have addressed.

Though his face was heavily pock-marked, Malden Frost looked somewhat austere in the crisp freshness of his lime uniform, the silver epaulettes of First Officer giving him a superior and resplendent look despite the man’s youth-ravaged skin. She hardly knew him – given how quickly the ship had been staffed, she hardly knew anyone on board – but there was something behind those soulful brown eyes she felt she could depend on. Was he a bastion of strength that would support her should she falter, or just a welcome bar of chocolate after the long diet?

Her thoughts of the man slipped rebelliously out of control, and she barely managed to discard the image forming in her mind, a picture of long green strips flaking away to reveal a hard and oiled torso beneath . . .

Alita turned her head sharply away. “Get a grip, girl!” Only when her heartbeat had become something close to normal did she gaze back at the compu-profile of her first officer. A lungful of processed air collected her equilibrium and dumped it gently into her brain.

Malden Frost – no, First Officer Frost – was a capable and experienced crewman, a valuable addition to the ship’s roster and in no way whatsoever likely to share her bed. It was just the uniform, nothing else.

A moment of critical self-analysis pressed upon her at that thought and she found herself in the ready room’s mirror. Did the natural (and in some places unnatural) facets of her own crystalline beauty glitter as brightly as the captain's gold on her shoulders? Or did this damned outfit make her bum look fat, like all the other green clothes she had worn in the past had done? She smoothed herself down and collected the crew roster as it whirred into life from the printer, deciding she would examine her own problems later on, perhaps, if she had time.

But when in a comet’s life did the captain of a luxury liner have time to herself?