Deep Space
Uhlek Badlands
ISS Negelle

“Here’s the trick,” said Captain Puller. “We can’t make too much noise out here—Spemin around, not to mention the Leghk floaters,” he continued, pacing in front of the seated ‘greenies,’ among them a newly minted Warrant Ensign named Perth Kanavus. Puller pointed to the starmap. “We are,” he paused, tapping on their coordinates, “a long mile from friendly frontiers. We are out here alone and we spend most of our time keeping a low profile.” He meant hiding, but there was no need to upset his new boot crew members. Negelle was a ‘star-chicken,’ designed to avoid detection and, in this case, monitor traffic at the Earth-Leghk flux node. “Be clear: we do not provide advanced warning. We are advanced warning.” He paused to let that sink in. “There is very little room for error and that is why my executive officer,” Puller motioned to a Thrynn commander standing silently in the shadows, “runs a tight ship...”

Deep Space
Thrynn Confederacy
SS Yardbird

The Thrynn patrol cutter was zig-zagging back and forth across Yardbird’s wake, only five or six thousand kilometers off the stern quarter. They had definitely sniffed something, probably emissions from the engine wells. “Damn,” said Boz Grabow. “We should’ve stuck closer to the merchant lane.” Yardbird’s emissions would’ve mixed with exhaust coming off the bulk freighters rolling in from the Windward Passage. “Yssk, can we mask the tailpipe?”

“Not now,” replied the Thrynn exile, tracking the exhaust readings. “They have already detected sssomething and they would notice the massk asss well. It would give them more reassson to be ssussspiciousss. We can only…sssweat it out.” A tense hour passed as the cutter continued to race around on Yardbird’s trail. She wasn’t giving up.

Boz asked if they were likely to call for assistance. “No. The cuttersss of the frontier guard all have the same sysstems—they’re not complementary. One iss ass good asss four and no command would disspatch a frigate on susspicion. Besides, the officer commanding that cutter will want full credit for—”

“Missile loose!” barked Nexbo. “Class two warhead on an inbound trajectory and spinning for maximum velocity—forty second warpath.” The glowing missile was streaking across open space toward the cloaked ship. Instinctively, Boz called for evasive maneuvers. Nexbo flipped two switches and yanked hard back and to the left on the rudder grip, jerking Yardbird sharply off course. “Thirty-five seconds,” said the Veloxi. Yssk ran a scan on the incoming missile, hanging onto his
armrests to compensate for Yardbird’s mediocre set of inertial dampeners. “Thirty seconds—it’s up and armed,” continued Nexbo as he banked the ship back to the right.

“It’sss inbound, but not tracking,” hissed Yssk. “They might be trying to shake uss out of cloak to free energy for the enginesss and a firefight.” This was a flawed strategy, of course, because Yardbird was armed with wrenches and lite beer, but the border patrol was banking on something more substantial than a superphotonic harbor tug. Nexbo called out the twenty-second marker. Boz made the call.

“Nexbo, bring us back in line—alongside, but not on the missile’s path.” Nexbo would’ve done the famous Veloxi double take, but the retired captain knew how to issue an order. “Yssk, divert every ounce of juice into the pre-spin cell and wait for my call to dump it onto the engine wells.” Yssk keyed the command, lining up the energy conduits.

The missile closed in, only a few hundred kilometers behind the Yardbird. The exiled engineer held his hand up to his earphone: “Fifteen seconds…ten…five.”

“Now, Yssk—drop the cell!” A burst of power shot into the single superphotonic engine well. The Yardbird catapulted ahead and belched a cloud of exhaust fumes. “Cut the engines—douse the shyneum converters and switch to batteries,” Boz concluded. Yssk checked his console and then grinned his razor teeth into view.

“It’sss working, Bozzz,” he said. The missile continued on its path, pulling up just off Yardbird’s aft starboard quarter. A mere three kilometers away, its bright burning tail was clearly visible. “It’sss burning up our exhaussst fumess,” said the Thrynn, “they haven’t got anything left to track usss by.” Running on batteries, Yardbird left no new signature.

After a few minutes, the missile’s fuel burned out and the weapon went inactive, tumbling out into space. The patrol cutter continued racing back and forth, trying to pick up the trail again, but it fell back further and further away from Yardbird.

“Let’s coast for another half hour,” said Boz sometime later. “Then we’ll get back onto the merchant lane and get this deal over with.” The Yardbird shot silently ahead, reaching for the heart of the Thrynn Confederacy.

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Next: “Boon Docks”

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