“They should be here by now,” grumbled a light female voice. The woman it belonged to tapped her thick leather boots against the floor in a steady rhythm. Glaring out the tall window, and crossing her arms for the thousandth time that evening, it was apparent to everyone on The Voyager that Juno Ryder’s patience was wearing thin.

“Have a little faith captain, ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day’ as they say,” the sing-song tone of her crew mate flitted from beside her.

“Yes, but they were laying bricks every hour!” The pirate snapped in response, tugging at her thick braid in annoyance before shifting her attention back to the void of space.

The dim glow of the stars danced in her pale viridescent eyes as she gazed intently at the twinkling light of the distant lunar colony, barely a spec to the naked eye. It was not the subject of the girls interest today, however. She was after something much smaller. A T.R.O.Y cargo ship was said to be departing from Ceres hours ago, and if her intel was correct, it carried Juno’s biggest payday.

“Captain! We’ve locked onto the target!”

Confirming this, the frantic beeping of a radar was music to her ears.

“YES! Good work Maia!”

The infamous thief leapt forward towards her crew member electrified with energy. “Maia, send out the S.O.S signal. I want it broadcasted directly to that ship! Dug, hit the lights! Everyone else take your places, and stick to the plan.” The captain wasted no time in barking out orders to her ragtag team of ten.

The crew dashed about in a hasty response, arming themselves to the teeth before disappearing into various blindspots around the ship. Lights dimmed, covering the assailants in a veil of darkness. It was only the crimson hue of the emergency lights that illuminated the deceptively empty room that kept Juno from tripping over herself as she took her position adjacent to the only door leading into the ships command center.

An ambush was the pirates best chance at victory considering she was outnumbered and outgunned. A head on attack would have been suicide for her much smaller frigate, and its deceptive speed made it perfect for fast get aways. Once the trade officers boarded her ship, they would find it seemingly abandoned and make their way to the main control center, where Juno would be lying in wait.

Over the intercom, Juno could hear a playback of the S.O.S message sent to their unsuspecting victims.

“Mayday, mayday,”

“Please…” the voice on the recording was her own; sounding, desperate, soft. and hopeless. “if anyone can hear this message, this a passenger among The Voyager. Ship number 02121. We need help!” Her voice cracked in what sounded like a strained cry. “Our ship has been robbed. It was horrible—.” a quite sob echoed down the hall ways. “We request immediate assistance. Please help us, you're our only hope” The recording reached it’s end with a deafening click, followed by a tense silence. She had recorded that months ahead of time in preparation for this heist. If Juno’s acting wasn’t so convincing, it would almost be comical.

“Time to see if they take the bait,” She muttered to herself.
@penny

“XO we are receiving a distress call,” the communications officer, a swarthy Gaean named Vanderbeak, reported, straightening in his chair at the sudden excitement. Slade blinked his eyes as a text crawl of the message began to scroll across his enhanced field of vision. The Cartagena shifted slightly as Slade became aware of the situation, his neural impulses tied into the ships sensors and control surfaces vial neural linkages implanted in his brachial and coracoid plexi. Lidar and microwave sensors swung onto the target in moments, the computer figuring a reciprocal to the transmission in less time than it too Vanderbreak to report it.

It had been eight months since Beckett Slade had been banished to obscurity aboard the T.R.O.Y frigate TAS Cartagena. It was not a pleasant assignment, and the fact that he had to look forward to it for the rest of his career did little to improve his enthusiasm. While he had been exonerated by the inquest into his actions on Benson, if he ever left military service he would be liable to civil prosecution on individual worlds which would effectively be a death sentence. At first he had tried to look on the posting as a chance to bring something of the Fleet’s discipline to the T.R.O.Y vessel but hs presence here was unwanted and the captain resented being saddled with him, a fact he made abundantly clear to the crew.

The sensor screen lit up with the lidar returns and the computer through up a simulation of the Voyager a compact frigate with the curving nacelle mountings common in this region of space. While such traders commonly went armed they were rarely a match for the more war like frigates that T.R.O.Y used. They must have been hit right after they came out of jumpspace, a common enough occurrence as jump points were stable and predictable and thus obvious targets for pirates.

“Should we alter course XO?” Vanderbeak asked. The ship ran on a Terran clock and this was deep into the night cycle. The only other officer on the bridge was Nakamura who was a gunner’s mate and was seated at the weapons console. Nakamura had his visor down, but Slade would have been surprised if he were viewing anything more useful than pornography on the system.

“Why aren’t they broadcasting on one of the system wide bands?” Slade asked Vanderbeak, the antennae that was transmitting to them was being manually aimed. That was an odd choice for people in distress who needed aid. Vanderbeak shrugged his shoulders.

“Pirates might have smashed up the commo, stop em’ calling for help. It's pretty standard, they probably weren’t smart enough to bust the manual systems,” the veteran said. Vanderbeak, like Slade, was on the captain’s shit list and had been banished to the night shift. He was a tall man in late middle age with blue eyes and thinning blonde hair. Slade liked him better than most of the other crew members and had trusted his experience. The registry files listed the Voyager as Frigate 02121 but held little beyond a commissioning date and an original owner. Slade had run enough checks to know that the information would be hopelessly out of date. In theory captains were required to update the registry information every time the made planet fall on a civilized world, but in practice few people really bothered.

“Mr Slade!” a voice snarled from the access hatch. Vanderbeak flinched but Slade merely turned to see the Captain, Markus Ridge, standing in the door his face twisted with anger. Ridge was a portly man in his mid forties, he might have been handsome once but age and dissipation had taken their toll. Ridge resented being saddled with Slade who he viewed as a direct insult to his own authority. It was bad luck that Ridge was up at this time, in the normal course of things the captain would be informed before altering course, though in practice Slade probably wouldn’t have bothered.

“Alter course at once,” Ridge snapped stamping across the deck to take his place at the command console.

“Sir,” Slade said in a neutral voice, “we haven’t had a chance to scan for…”

“The Stars burn you Slade, you will alter course or I will toss you in the brig. Do all you navy types fuck around coveringing your asses while people are running out of oxygen, or are you just a particular coward?” the captain snarled maliciously. Obviously he wasn’t best pleased to be out of bed at this late hour and the opportunity to snap at Slade was a balm. Slade didn’t rise to the bait even though Nakamura sniggered.

“Altering course now,” Slade declared and the impulses from his nervous system translated into a slow rotation as the maneuvering jets began to fire with an impact like waves hitting the side of a rowboat. The six thrusters at the rear of the vessel modulated their output such that the sliding greasy feeling of the gravity change stabilized almost before it could be felt. Such delicate manoeuvring was a naval standard but were far beyond most pilots. Characteristically Ridge ignored the good performance of his subordinate.

“Time to intercept?” Ridge asked wearily.

“21 minutes captain, unless you want us to burn harder,” Slade said in his neutral professional voice. It seemed to irritate Ridge more than screaming or cursing would have done and the Captain shot him a scowl. Increasing the burn beyond the 1.5Gs they were currently pulling would require that general quarters be sounded and the crew strap in.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Ridge said with another derisive sneer. A moment ago he had been scolding Slade for wanting to take his time and scan the ship, now he was rejecting a course which would get them there faster because it involved a little personal discomfort. If Ridge noticed the contradiction he didn’t comment.

“This is Captain Ridge of the TAS Cartagena,” Ridge declared over the commuications link.

“We are maneuvering to provide you assistance, stand by to receive boarders, ETA two one minutes. The pompous ass sound magnanimous, the very picture of a T.R.O.Y officer eager and willing to do his duty. Kissing ass took you places it turned out.

“Get a boarding party together once you unplug from that damned chair.” It was a pointless and petty gesture, Slade’s implants made him the best pilot for the Cartagena, neural interface being far superior to manual flight control but plugging in and out was unpleasant. It was true that he was the best qualified to lead a boarding party, but then he was best qualified to do most things on the slipshod vessel.

“Yes sir,” he said, doing his best to keep the irritation out of his voice. Well a few minutes off this tub was something to look forward to at least.

"Captain Ryder," The unexpected, monotone vocalization of Felixx, a small AI drone, rang out from the ship's speakers causing Juno to jump. Due to superstition AI's were scare, even among the most fanatic technophiles of the galaxy. Many claimed there was an inevitable chance of instability, though Juno had always dismissed this caution; unwilling to a waste it's recourses.

Felixx was white on black, and barely larger than a dinner plate. Blue lights lined the underside of it's wings, painting a modern design disrupted only by the long scratches that riddled it's top and bottom frame. The battle scars from the junkyard Juno found it on. Though it was idly nestled in its charging port, it's main programming was uplinked to the Voyagers systems. This made it useful both inside and out, letting it attend to the ship's needs while doubling as a scout on the field.

"We are receiving intelligence from the incoming TROY vessel. Playing now." The artificial tone was replaced with a human one, "We are maneuvering to provide you assistance, stand by to receive boarders, ETA two one minutes." The message ended. There was a brief pause, followed by "How would you like to respond?"

Every eye fell on her, eagerly awaiting orders. After four years, Juno thought she would no longer feel the weight of their gaze, but it still settled upon her shoulders like a ton of bricks as if it were her first day. Even her time as sergeant within her home world did not prepare her of the pressure of leading others. One wrong judgment call and she could put their lives at risk.
She swallowed down the large knot caught in her throat, and painted on her usual self-confidence and bravado. A smirk found its way to her lips, her hands lightly placed on her hips, "I say we give the TAS Cartagena one hell of a welcome party." This earned the lighthearted smiles of the crew, now a sea of nodded responses.

"Maia," Juno addressed the taller girl, six years her junior. She sported a short pixy cut, styled in sharp spikes. Her brilliant apricot hair was impossible to miss. Maia had a small pointed face, further affirming her adolescence, and pale ocean eyes. She hadn't change much from the the three years prior to Juno finding her fighting off raiders in Eros. Since then, the sister Gaean had become a close friend and played a pivot role in many of Juno's operations. It was rare to meet another Gaean outside of their home planet, considering the stratocracy's distaste towards outsiders.

"You'll be leading the infiltration team. Do not leave until we have the hostages subdued. You know the plan."

"Dug, I need you here with me," She glanced towards a man one would expect to see on a body building holo rather than a pirate ship."You have the most firepower. The group they send will only be a fraction of their numbers on board. If anything goes sideways, get yourself to safety first." The sternness of her voice was only contradicted by the desperate plea that nothing would go wrong. A lot was riding on their success, and obtaining the cargo was of upmost importance. Still, Juno could never sacrifice her posses safety for it. They had been her family for years.

"You got it boss," The mid-thirties man replied. Dug was the very image of a leatherneck marine. He had steely grey eyes and a long scar starting at his temple and traveling down his cheek. Still, Juno could have imagined a much younger, more attractive man at one time.

Together they descended down the dark hallways towards the lower level of the ship. Stopping just before the metallic doors that led into the shuttle bay. Her dainty face reflected off the smooth exit, which she stared at like a stranger. Her long chocolate curls were contained in a loose, messy braid which was pulled over her should and hung just above her rib cage. The crew members behind her easily overshadowed her small frame. Her plain black and sage clothes hugged her figure tightly, following the gentle curves of her body, and disrupted only by the holster at her side containing a pistol. A small, unknown constellation carved haphazardly into the hilt, revealing the owners fondness of the fire arm.

"Felixx, open the hangar and prepare to be boarded"

“Stars she is really banged up,” Vanderbeak declared as the Voyager swelled to fill the main monitor. The vessels hull was scared with weapons fire and charing from hits with energy weapons and blast damage. Something about it seemed wrong to Slade as his hands played over the controls. As the captain had directed he and six other crewmen including Vanderbeak who had volunteered, as much to get away from the captain, as for any real need for another officer, were aboard one of the boarding craft. The Sexy, more properly the C-EX-3, was a small all purpose cutter, useful for landing men, providing fire support to ground troops and the other ash and trash jobs that took crewmen away from the Cartagena. It had a pair of nose mounted pulse cannons, a bank of four thrusters mounted, on the tips of each of its four wings on gimbels, and a single jump capacitor in case of emergencies. The Sexy, as the number implies, was one of three such craft assigned to the Cartagena, but due to maintenance shortfalls, it was the only one currently operational.

“She’s taken alot of hits to still be in one piece like that,” Slade observed, touching the controls and gimbling the forward thrusters into a slight tangential opposition to the rearward pair. The maneuver pushed the crew into their acceleration couches as the Sexy’s nose lifted so that she flared like a swooping bird.

“Captain must be a stubborn bitch,” Vanderbeak agreed with a note of admiration in his voice. Slade opened his mouth to agree, but there was something about the damage that didn’ts sit quite right with him. Why had the captain not surrendered to the pirates earlier? Perhaps she had felt that she could run for Ceres? It was only half a million kilometers away, a mere stones throw in astronomical terms, but she must have known she couldn’t bring the ship through the atmosphere while being fired upon from a high guard. That was impossible even for a warship. Panic might have been an excuse, but if you panicked you were more likely to surrender than to risk being blown to atoms.

“Stand by to de-cel,” Slade said over the unit push as the rangefinders spun down towards intercept. He touched a series of control kicking the Sexy into alignment with the hangar bay at the aft of the vessel.

“Burning.”

The deck seemed to punch up into their feet as he fired all four thrusters in a series of syncopating bursts, bleeding off the residual acceleration without losing his heading. The small shuttle slid through the magnetic containment field no faster than a man could walk and there was a slight slap as they encountered the air inside the bay. A moment later they touched down with all the force of a feather fluttering to the ground.

“Show off,” Vanderbeak muttered as he began to unstrap himself. Slade winked at him and stood up. He was wearing a set of fleet standard body armor, segmented grey ceramic plates over a vacuum rated polymer suit. The integral air supply was mounted in the slight bulk between his shoulder blades, feeding the maneuvering jets built into the arms and legs as well as providing air to the occupant. He fixed his helmet over his head with a hiss of engaging seals and bought the HUD live with a flick of his tongue. Slade had done his rotation in zero-g operations, though he didn’t claim to be an expert. In the Fleet most long term G-heads were female, whose lower metabolic rates and muscle mass gave them an advantage where oxygen consumption was a factor.

“Do you really think you are going to need the monkey suit?” Vanderbeak asked. He, like the rest of the boarding party were dressed in grey T.R.O.Y coveralls, a far more comfortable choice. They had tactical webbing on though with the exception of the holstered pistols and the odd knife, they weren’t armed. This was a rescue operation after all and tools were likely to be more useful than weapons.

“The last thought of every poor bastard blown out an airlock has probably been ‘I wish I packed my monkey suit’ right?” Slade retorted, picking up a small sub machine gun and hanging it from an attachment point on the front of the suit, before opening the hatch to the crew compartment. Six crewmen sat on jump seats along a central isle. The looked excited and were babbling among themselves, which was understandable, this was the most exciting thing that had happened in the months since Slade had joined the crew.

“Alright,” Slade declared, his voice cutting through the babble of voices with a clear not of command.

“We know these people have been robbed by pirates. Pirates who we can’t be sure are all gone, keep your guard up and follow protocol. We will locate the captain and then give them what assistance they need to get to the ground on Ceres.” He paused for a moment uncertain of what else he should say.

“Keep your eyes open, something doesn't smell quite right,” he added at last. More than one set of eyes rolled, but they dutifully stood to allow him passed. At the end of the gangway he pulled the retractor switch and the rear facing ramp dropped under hydraulic pressure. There was a slight rush of air as the pressure differential between ship air and shuttle air equalized and then the ramp clanged down. The air in the hanger smelled like lubricant and burned engine casings, though some of that was the thruster wash from the shuttle. Crates of tools and half repaired pieces of machinery were scattered about and cables and hoses were stowed in untidy loops. There was no gravity in the bay and bolts, trash and globs of lubricant floated in the air. Slade used his magnetic boots to walk down the ramp and onto the deck. Behind him the spacers tramped down the ramp, pulling on helmets to shield their eyes.

“This is S2 to Cartagena,” Slade said, the words tripping the microwave link back to the ship.

“We are on deck, but it doesn't look like anyone came to meet us. Ill update you soonest S2 out.”