“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.