Chapter Three
By the time Rhyn was
on the final approach to intercept the pirate vessel he had been hailed three
times by the Mebians and was down to his very last nerve. He’d only been in
pursuit for ten standard minutes for Ion’s sake.
Deciding enough was
enough, he sent out a coded message to the Mebian vessel.
“This is Baker’s Pride to the Mebian freighter, Blue Pearl, making contact in galactic
standard minus ten. Communication silence from mark.”
That at least should
keep them off his back for a while. Even a Mebian should be able to work out
the importance of communication silence. Surely they’d consider how breaking it
might compromise retrieving their precious cargo if nothing else.
Breathing a sigh of
relief, he began slowing to contact speed and watched as the pirate’s vessel
came into view. An uneasy feeling had Rhyn loosening the pulse gun in the
holster at his hip. Something just didn’t feel right. It definitely looked like
Bretag’s ship, but it was just sitting there, drifting in space. Normally by
this stage of the game he would expect them to be launching shock grenades and
phaser bursts to try to throw him off or disable his ship. Right now, however,
the pirate vessel looked rather like a beached leviathan he had once seen on
Eros Minor—utterly helpless and ominously quiet.
A sudden shudder ran
through his ship, and Rhyn heard the guidance system sound the warning alarm
for an unexpected shift in position. It looked like there was a pretty bad
solar storm brewing. Rhyn could already feel the solar winds buffeting the
hull. It wasn’t enough to have stopped the pirate vessel or prevent him from
boarding to investigate, but it could make things interesting and it meant that
he couldn’t muck around being all pansy-assed out here all afternoon.
Calmly, he reached for
his sidearm and checked the energy charge.
“Show time,” he
muttered to himself as he confirmed it was set to maximum.
Flicking on the
communicator, he tried a broad hail. “Bretag, you old quiral. Haul to and
prepare to be boarded.”
Nothing. No return
hail. His apprehension increased even more. Something was definitely wrong.
Bretag and his crew took great pains to taunt and abuse him as they tried to
outmanoeuvre him. Silence just wasn’t their thing. The fact that they had never
won, and never would, was hardly the point. It was the way they played the
game. This was just too weird a deviation from normal for him to accept.
Cautiously he
manoeuvred into position beside the pirate ship and began the boarding sequence,
establishing an airlock and quickly dialling the code to open the hatch between
the two space crafts. He stood back, pulse gun in hand just in case. He didn’t
expect any trouble from the crew, but the crew he knew and loved to goad might
not be the ones he had to worry about today. Either way he’d be prepared.
Easing his way down the gangway he stayed alert and ready for anything.
A loud metallic
clatter followed by a pained cry had him raising his weapon in readiness.
Cautiously he crept forward, hearing occasional cries of alarm and distress,
prepared for anything. The sight that met him as he rounded the entry tunnel,
however, was quite simply one he would never have expected to see, or likely
forget. Not in this lifetime at least.
Barricaded in the tiny
dining nook, surrounded by chunks of ore, an odd assortment of cooking
utensils, machinery pieces and even an old space boot—it’s heavy mag-web sole
fastened comically to the bulk head above them so it drooped down the wall—was
the crew of the Bretag 5, desperately trying to defend
themselves from a very small, very naked man brandishing a large metal skillet.
The space under the table was so cramped that all four crew members cowering
under the fixed table almost appeared to be one man. They were a jumble of
squashed faces and tangled limbs. Arms, legs and shoulders periodically poked
their fellows, forcing them out from cover only to quickly grab their
appendages back as the little firebrand went for them with his makeshift
weapon.
“What on Ion is going
on?” he finally managed to splutter.
In hindsight it was a
bit of a mistake. The small man spun around, obviously afraid of being attacked
from behind, and given the glorious behind on display it was a legitimate
concern. Rhyn certainly felt like attacking it. He could well imagine kneading,
fondling and licking it for long contented hours. Not to mention pounding away
at it ruthlessly and thoroughly to what was sure to be a mind blowing climax.
Pushing the salacious
thoughts aside, Rhyn got his first good look at the man, and it really didn’t
help get his mind back on track. Huge green eyes stared up at him from a small,
distinctly feline-shaped face. Tousled, flame red hair kicked out in
fascinating waves around the pale oval of his face, and the cutest little
pointed ears poked through the messy hair on his head. Rhyn felt himself
getting hard just thinking about the glorious contrast the man’s pale white
skin and bright red hair would make against his own dark skin as the man knelt
in front of him and…
The moment’s
distraction was all it took. Bretag shoved hard at one of his brothers. “Get
him!” he yelled desperately.