Blood. A common sight as of late. It’s never the same seeing one’s own blood, however. That blood has meaning. It was the foundation of life. Blood spatters always had a story to tell. You could imagine the violence that caused it. In this case, a simple fist to the jaw. The Rorschach-esque pattern made by the mix of blood and saliva looked vaguely like a fist. Maybe that was because there was a clenched fist next to it. Lots of fists today.
Commodore Vincent Taurus pushed himself up from the deck of his Lancer class frigate’s bridge to stare into the eyes of his attacker. Two blaster rifles followed him up from the deck. A short, fat man with a pushed in face, he was not much to look at. “The
Equinox will never be yours, Weston,” he growled through clenched teeth. His jaw was killing him, but he would never let on. “You are about to bring about the full wrath of the Vast Empire’s Navy. You will be hunted, found, and your little fleet will be turned into a bumpy spot in a waypoint.”
Weston laughed heartily. A guttural laugh that made him double over slightly, holding his expansive belly. Wiping a tear away for dramatic effect, he replied, “Commodore, I’m not here for your ship. I have a half dozen of these things and would gladly sacrifice them all for a good score. I am here for you. Your crew was worthless,” he jabbed as he waved a hand to encompass the corpses that littered the bridge.
Vincent allowed his gaze to follow Weston’s hand as it swept throughout the room. A red clad soldier caught Vincent’s eye. Sierra had insisted that the Royal Guardsman accompany him. Vincent protested of course, but conceded. He now wished he hadn’t.
“Your ransom will be a hefty one,” Weston continued, bringing Vincent’s attention back. “I know you have lots of valuable military secrets in that head of yours. I also know I’d be wasting my time trying to pry them out of you. You are a stubborn man, Taurus. Your value rests in the desire for your Empire to have you returned.”
It was Vincent’s turn to laugh. It started as a low chuckle and grew into an almost maniacal cackle. “You think the High Command will bargain with a pirate? I know you guys run spice. I didn’t take you for a user.”
Weston pointed a finger at Vincent’s chest and opened his mouth to speak. Weston’s comm unit clipped to his belt chirped and an excited voice erupted from the speaker, “Cap’m, we got a crap-ton of ships just entered realspace. Frigates. Corvettes. I think one of them is technically a transport. They’re hailing. I see a Jolly Roger.”
“Damn it,” Weston muttered as he ripped his comm from his belt. Keying the mic, he barked, “What does Osk want?”
There was a delay that seemed to go on for hours to Weston. Finally, his comm chirped again, “They’re claiming a territorial grievance, boss. Telling us to rabbit or they’ll open fire on the lot of us.”
“Shit,” Weston spat. He began to pace the deck, tapping his comm idly against his chin. Turning swiftly mid-stride, he dashed to the communications console on the frigate. Tapping a few commands into the console, he stood back and waited. A video screen jumped to life. On the other end of the call was a tall man. Long dark hair and what could be considered a 36 o’clock shadow. A smirk formed as he seemed to take in the view. “What seems to be the problem, Matthias?” Weston asked with an attempted innocent smile.
“C’mon, Wes. You know this is my piece of infinity. Go pester people in another slice of the rest of the galaxy,” the tall man replied. Each word seemed to echo with amusement as if this was all a big game. The smirk never faded.
Weston bristled visibly at this. “This one is mine! I put in the leg-work and you can’t steal him from me,” he erupted, pointing at Vincent. “You can keep the Lancer, but the captain is mine!”
Matthias leaned in toward the camera. His expansive grin spread across the entire screen. “You know how this works, Wes. I can either rip your fleet apart with a single volley or you can leave now empty handed.” His grin widened. “Alive,” he added for emphasis. The frustration of Vincent’s captor only fueled the newest player’s amusement. Backing away from the camera, he turned his attention to Vincent. “You there. I’ll be aboard with a team as soon as these idiots are gone. Don’t do anything stupid like picking up a blaster. I’ll have a boarding team with me.” With that, the screen went dark.
Weston’s comm unit bounced off of the dark screen and clattered to the deck. Both hands clamped to the communication terminal with white knuckled ferocity. “Dusty,” he began, stopping briefly to clear his throat when his voice cracked. “You and Jennings had back to the boarding craft.”
Jennings raised his rifle to aim at Vincent’s forehead. “Want me to put one in him, boss?”
“Idiot!” Weston shouted as he lunged across the bridge to lower Jennings’ rifle. “We’ll be lucky enough to leave here alive if we do everything that those Osk lunatics want.” Turning toward Vincent, a scowl formed across his face. “Much as I’d love to see him join his crew in hell...” His scowl turned to a smirk as he watched Vincent’s hands ball into fists. His face, however remained neutral. “I’ll be seeing you, Taurus,” Weston said as he turned and exited the bridge. Dusty and Jennings followed shortly, keeping an eye on Vincent to make sure he wouldn’t attack.
Vincent turned away from the exit from the bridge and strode calmly to his command chair. Exhaling slowly, he slid into the chair and bridged his fingers to rest his chin on. Taking in the scene before him, the Commodore fought the urge to pick up his blaster pistol that had been tossed into the far corner of the room by Dusty. He was the captain of a dead ship and was about to be boarded for the second time in as many hours.
’Oh, hell. What’s that word that pirates use to request quarter? I wonder if these people live by as much of a code as that.’ he mused. His eyes closed slowly and his mind wished it all away. He would have rather been anywhere. Even sitting in a boring Naval High Council meeting listening to the political bantering back and forth that drove him away from his position.
As Vincent opened his eyes, a pair of feral eyes stared back. Green? Grey? Whatever the color, they had the amused look of the mad. The Commodore straightened from the chair, ignoring the blaster rifles trained on his every move. Coming to attention, he reported, “Commodore Vincent ‘Claw’ Taurus of the Vast Empire Navy. Captain of the Lancer class
Equinox. Advisor to the Navy High Command.”
The tall man that Weston called Matthias brushed past Vincent and flopped into the command chair, throwing his right leg over the arm rest. “You can call me Snipes. I take it you’ve heard of the Osk Company?”
Vincent turned toward Snipes and nodded. “I’ve read reports. Pirates. Tolerated by the Vast Empire. Special missions on occasion when deniability is preferred. We look the other way because you haven’t pissed us off yet.”
Snipes chuckled lightly. “That sums it up pretty well, fly boy.”
Vincent began to relax slightly, understanding the position he was in a little better... perhaps. “So what is it that you plan to do with me, Snipes?” he asked.
“Ah!” Snipes started, excited. He shifted, bringing his leg back down to the deck as he sat forward in the chair. “You see, that is why I came to see you in person. It seems to me that you owe us a debt for rescuing you.”
Vincent folded his arms across his chest. “How much?”
Snipes leaned back in the chair with a dismissive wave. A look of disgust at the mention of money crossed his face before he responded. “It’s not a question of credits. You owe us your life. Are you familiar with the term ‘shanghai’ Commodore?” The wild grin returned to his scraggly face. He almost appeared as if he was staring hungrily at his prey.
“You do know that I will escape as soon as I find my moment.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
