Chapter 20
The curved expanse of Babcinq filled the Star Shrike’s viewscreen, a sprawling, glittering tumor of UPA bureaucracy clinging to the void.
Nick Corso leaned forward in his command chair, as a slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
He was here first. Díaz and her flying scrapheap were still limping through hyperspace, blissfully unaware of the vipers’ nest waiting for them.
“Hold us here,” he ordered, his voice a low rumble that carried easily across the bridge. “Perimeter orbit. Keep us just outside their official control zone. Don’t want to give those COPS bastards an excuse to poke their noses in.”
“Aye, Captain,” James responded crisply from the pilot’s station. Her fingers danced over the controls, adjusting the thrusters with practiced ease. The Star Shrike settled into a smooth, silent glide, a shark circling just beyond the light. “Orbital pattern established. Holding position.”
Nick’s gaze swept across the tactical displays flanking the main viewscreen.
Dozens of ships crawled around the massive station – lumbering freighters, sleek corporate yachts, the occasional blocky COPS patrol cutter.
All insignificant. All potential hiding places for one particular, battered freighter.
“Sensors,” he barked. “Full active sweep. I want every docking bay, every maintenance slip, every shadow scanned. Make sure Antilles isn’t here.”
“Sweep initiated, Captain,” replied Brask, the sensor operator. His massive frame seemed to engulf his station. “Running pattern recognition against known Antilles signatures. Focusing on outer docking rings first.”
Corso drummed his fingers on the armrest. Patience wasn’t his strongest virtue, but the hunt demanded it. He was certain he’d beaten her here. There was no way that POS Díaz called a ship could have made it to Babcinq in the time Star Shrike had, even with the delay of doubling back to Alora.
But he had to be sure. He had to know she hadn’t fucked everything all up worse than usual.
He pictured Díaz’s face – that stubborn, defiant set of her jaw, the dark eyes flashing with anger he always managed to ignite. She’d be scanning, too, probably shitting herself over whether the COPS had detected their exit from hyperspace.
The thought warmed him. Soon, he’d have her exactly where he wanted her.
His plan was elegant in its brutality. Make sure Díaz wasn’t here, then wait for her right at the jump-exit point.
As soon as she showed, the Shrike’s plasma cannon would rip her thrusters to shreds.
He’d leave her dead in space before she could even think about an approach vector.
Then he’d board her sorry excuse for a vessel and take the Xena from her.
A familiar heat stirred low in his belly. Not just the anticipation of the fight, but the image of Carmen Díaz on her knees, stripped of her precious control, finally acknowledging his superiority. Her sharp tongue silenced. Her defiance broken.
“No sign of the Antilles in the primary docking arrays, Captain,” Brask reported, pulling Corso from his pleasant reverie. “Scanning secondary bays and maintenance sectors now.”
“Keep looking,” Corso growled. “She’s coming.” He glanced at James. “Prep the ambush coordinates. We do this just like we would a fat, luxury liner – incapacitate her but keep the passengers alive for looting.”
“Coordinates locked, Captain,” James confirmed. “As soon as Brask finishes scanning for Antilles, we’ll move into position and wait like a spider.”
Corso nodded, satisfaction tightening his jaw. Everything was falling into place. Díaz was walking right into his trap. He could almost taste her humiliation.
Deep in the sensor-shadowed lee of a massive ore freighter, the vessel designated Silent Blade hung motionless. Its matte-black hull drank the ambient light, rendering it nearly invisible against the backdrop of stars and the distant curve of Babcinq.
Inside the cramped, dimly lit bridge, Julear K’Shaa sat perfectly still in the command chair, his pale-orange skin seeming to absorb the faint glow of the instrument panels.
His eyes, large and tourmaline, scanned the tactical overlay projected before him.
Patience was not merely a virtue; it was the bedrock of his existence.
The Xena would come. The President’s intelligence was absolute.
And when she came, the Silent Blade would be waiting.
“Status?” K’Shaa’s voice was a dry whisper, barely audible over the low thrum of the ship’s life support.
“Perimeter patrol continues, Commander,” Comms Officer Davidson, a human female with close-cropped gray hair and eyes devoid of warmth, responded. “No anomalous contacts. Traffic patterns nominal for Babcinq’s current operational cycle.”
She paused, her fingers hovering over her console.
“Passive scanners detect multiple vessels matching the profile parameters, but none triggering the specific transponder signature associated with the target shipment.”
K’Shaa acknowledged the report with a minute tilt of his head. The target vessel – the independent freighter contracted for the initial, botched delivery – was cunning. It would likely attempt to blend in, using the station’s chaotic traffic as cover.
But it couldn’t hide its core identity. Every UPA-manufactured ship, down to the smallest shuttle, carried an embedded recognizer chip – a unique electronic fingerprint broadcast on a secure, low-power frequency.
The Silent Blade’s sensors were specifically tuned to isolate and identify those signatures, cutting through the noise of standard transponders and IFF signals.
The smugglers couldn’t mask their ship’s birthright.
And even if they had changed ships, even if the “lost merchandise” was in possession of someone else, they would have to send a signal. They couldn’t dock at Babcinq with a package like that. The president had made other arrangements.
Minutes stretched into a quarter-hour. The bridge remained silent, the tension a physical weight. K’Shaa didn’t fidget. He breathed slowly, evenly, conserving energy, his focus absolute.
The Xena was too valuable, the president’s orders too explicit. Every individual who had knowledge of her existence, every hand that had touched her container, represented a loose end. Loose ends were unacceptable. They frayed. They snapped. They compromised the integrity of the whole.
Erasure was the only solution. Clean. Complete.
A subtle chime sounded at the comms station. Davidson leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she processed the data stream.
“Commander,” she said, a new edge in her flat tone.
“Passive sensor grid has isolated a recognizer signature. Designation: Star Shrike. Notorious pirate vessel. Usually operates in the Belt but has been known to prey on passenger ships in outer destinations. Registered to one Nicholas Corso. Cross-referencing with mission parameters.”
K’Shaa waited ever patiently. If this was the moment, it would not do to rush. Precision demanded a clear mind, not one excited by unnecessary emotion.
“Confirmed. Star Shrike was the primary courier contracted for the initial delivery run from Waystation Alora.”
K’Shaa’s brown eyes fixed on the tactical overlay.
A new icon pulsed – a red diamond representing the Star Shrike, orbiting lazily just beyond the station’s official control boundary.
Had this Corso intercepted the Xena? Recovered the asset after the waystation debacle? Or was he, too, lying in wait?
The motive was irrelevant. The President’s orders were clear: recover the asset and eliminate all involved parties.
Corso qualified. Spectacularly so. His presence, his ship’s recognizer chip broadcasting its identity like a beacon, was an opportunity.
A chance to excise a significant portion of the infection in one swift cut.
“Target acquired,” K’Shaa whispered, the words carrying finality.
“All hands, combat stations. Prepare for silent intercept and immediate engagement. Weapons free. Disable engines and primary systems. We’re within range of Babcinq’s outer scanners, so make this look like an internal meltdown.
And make it quick. Boarding protocols authorized upon successful disablement. ”
A series of soft, affirmative clicks echoed across the bridge as the crew moved with silent efficiency.
The low whisper of the Silent Blade’s engines deepened almost imperceptibly as thrusters fired, nudging the black vessel out of the sensor shadow of the ore freighter.
It slid forward, a phantom moving against the starfield, its course set unerringly for the unsuspecting pirate ship orbiting ahead.
Nick was reviewing the finalized ambush coordinates James had laid in when Brask’s voice cut through the bridge’s focused quiet.
“Negative on the Antilles, Captain,” he reported. “Scanned every accessible bay, every registered slip. No sign of her signature. She’s not here.”
Nick smiled. Perfect. Just as he’d anticipated, Antilles limping through hyperspace had been no match for the Shrike’s speed.
“James, move us to the ambush point.”
“Aye, Captain,” his faithful first mate responded, her fingers already moving. “Adjusting thrusters. Coming about to—”
The universe exploded.
No klaxon. No proximity alert. No warning shriek of sensors. One moment, Star Shrike was turning, the next, a colossal force slammed into her port flank.
The deck bucked violently. Metal shrieked. Sparks fountained from overloaded consoles. Emergency lights bathed the bridge in a harsh, bloody-red glow, replacing the normal illumination that had flickered and died. Alarms finally began their belated, deafening wail.
“Report!” he roared, fighting against the G-forces as the ship lurched drunkenly. He tasted copper – he’d bitten his tongue. “What hit us?!”