A Few Good Men (Closed)

[Lucius]

Prologue

The Arabesque
Bridge

The engine ports of the battleship Arabesque flared brightly in the abyss of open space. With a silent roar, the ship turned full-circle, and came to an abrupt stop. It stared, with inhuman intelligence, at the small freighter that had appeared behind it. The lingering plumes of vented drive plasma streaming after it signalled it was in danger.

The Arabesque’s captain peered at the viewing screen with a surprised expression. He picked out every detail of the vessel, until the sudden realisation dawned on him that it was familiar.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

The bridge bristled with tension for a moment. The steel gang walks, navigation arrays, and computer banks danced with lights.

“Identify the vessel,” he commanded, in the absence of an autonomous response from the crew.

The bridge burst into activity. They pressed buttons, analysed data, and barked commands down to the lower decks. The ship's scanners picked at the approaching vessel, tracing every inch of its hull to match it with entries in the interstellar database.

“Captain,” a young officer barked. He turned in his seat on the lower deck, and looked up at the officious man in the chair towering above. “The ship is displaying architectural synchronicity with the trade freighter designated the Prima Vista, sir.”

The captain sighed.

“I thought as much.”

“Your orders, sir?” the officer pressed. There was a twinkle in his eye, though the captain could never work out if it was admiration or fear.

“Hold our current position Lieutenant. Alert fighter crews to be ready to launch, and…” His voice trailed away in surprise. His eyes widened.

As the lieutenant turned to look at the viewing screen, everyone on the bridge gasped his or her surprise, horror, and awe. Out in space, beyond the first ship's ageing bulwarks and clunky engines, something much more dangerous and foreboding emerged from a glowing portal. The Arabesque did not need to run a long-range scan to identity the second vessel.

“Scratch that,” the captain barked. He rose from his seat. “Launch all fighter crews. Fire the rear thrusters Ensign Jihta, and get ahead of the Prima Vista before that ship opens fire!”

The minutes that followed were a blur of tension and anxiety. From the wings of their ship, two long streams of dog-fighters darted out into the void. Their engines left lingering trails in their wake. The Prima Vista neared the Arabesque, until the larger, advanced ship passed over the freighter and came between the gigantic Company vessel and its prey. The green, trailing lights of the ship’s engine obscured it in the shimmering wave of distortions it left behind.

“Is the Prima Vista safe?” the captain roared. His brow was beading with sweat. His heavy overcoat, clad in medals, communication devices, and command support systems, was swift discarded. He slung it over his chair, straightened the collar of his shirt, and leant against the railing that overlooked the lower work deck.

“Yes Captain, the ship is obscured by our own hull, and turning to synchronise with the flight patterns we’ve transmitted to the navigator.”

“Good, Ensign,” the captain replied. He stared at the young recruit, nodded, and then looked back up at the unfolding drama. He made a mental note to commend the navigator if they survived the encounter.

The Company was a huge ship, twice as large as the Arabesque, though not as well defended, or armed. The captain was erred to caution by his representative to the Administrate that such vessels were prowling the regions of space surrounding Scara Brae. He had not expected them to be looking for Captain Leopold Winchester, of all people.

“Are we receiving any notification of communication, or signs of sub-space attempts to scan our ship?” He turned his attention to the science officer on the upper deck, who was feverishly punching adjustments into the shield calibrator panel and the adjacent weapons systems console.

The officer turned with a glare, showing her dislike for disruption during her work. She flicked the long, blonde fringe from her eyes, set down her data slate, and shook her head.

“No, Captain. The ship appears to be dead in space.”

The captain frowned. “It has to be crewed, surely? It can’t hyper jump without a navigator.”

He had heard of space hulks, but had never seen one. They were gigantic pre-war ships that were not crewed, but remained operational with the will of long maddened A.I systems. He doubled back over his train of thought, and then shook his head.

This was the Prima Vista. He knew the crew as though they were his family.

“No, it’s crewed alright.” He remembered a snippet of information he had learnt during the Administrate Academy years ago. “Seurat, can you scan the lower hold of the ship. Look for plasma fluctuations similar to engine refuse, and then rotate the frequency by seventy clicks.”