(Created page with 'Asleep. She was asleep, curled up with her sister Snowfur, as far up a tree as either of them could climb. It was late afternoon, and they were back home on Demaria. The fading l…') |
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Latest revision as of 21:07, 15 February 2011
Asleep. She was asleep, curled up with her sister Snowfur, as far up a tree as either of them could climb. It was late afternoon, and they were back home on Demaria. The fading light of the twin suns bathed the land in a golden glow, and the two of them dozed peacefully, out of reach of their larger (and therefore heavier) siblings. A scream split the tranquil scene. "INCOMING!" It was really more of a roar than a scream, the voice deep and masculine. Swiftfoot looked down at Snowfur, then around the area. Her sister certainly hadn't screamed, and in fact was still dozing, despite the noise. That in itself was strange. The voice didn't belong to anyone in the family, and there was nobody else in sight, or in earshot for that matter. It didn't even sound like a Demarian, now that she thought about it. Who could possibly have given such a warning, and why?
The felinoid's orange fur stood on end as she surfaced from the reverie and realized that it was, indeed, just a daydream. "Oh, shit," she thought, golden eyes widening as she pawed frantically at the flight controls in a near-panic. Wait, flight controls? What the hell? It seemed like a good idea to wait until they -weren't- being fired at to figure that out. The ship bucked and lurched under the incoming laser fire, the onboard sensors keening their protests in a myriad of beeps and buzzes. Every telltale on the board went red for a moment, then back to green, interspersed with a few amber ones for good measure. She could see a ship on the viewscreen, more than likely heating up for another volley. Typical. Could things possibly get any worse?
"Hey furball, what the FUCK are you doing up there? You're gonna get us all killed! Evasive fucking manuevers! You know how to do those, right?" Being screamed at by an irate Martian was proof positive that things can always get worse. Now the voice was familiar, at least, as her location fell into place. He was Augustus, the captain of the IND Nightshade. That would be the ship that Swiftfoot was supposed to be flying right now. Emphasis on supposed to be. The felinoid pilot entertained a fleeting urge to rip the human's head off later, when she didn't need him to man the starboard turret in order to get out of this alive. She wouldn't actually -do- so, but not because of any specific reason other than the fact that ripping your employers' heads off rarely leads to good references. That, however, didn't stop it from crossing her mind.
A brief thought of apology crossed her mind then, but instead, she put her paws to the ship's controls with a bit more purpose and dove sharply to starboard, accelerating to engagement speeds. Time enough later to apologize. Survive now, apologize later. Right. The Nightshade responded deftly, and the sudden change in vector turned what would likely have been a direct hit into a glancing blow. The freighter shuddered, a couple of the telltales on the main board going amber, then back to green again as the shields held off the worst of the damage. The other ship - the Raven's Dive, according to its registry - accelerated as well, and followed.
"How'd she creep up on us like that, captain?" the pilot inquired as she changed vectors again, this time hard to port. The Raven's Dive followed shortly thereafter, laser fire lancing out from both of her turrets, but missing this time. The "r's" in the inquiry were slightly rolled, as usual. Almost like a purr. Damn that accent, anyway.
"Shit if I know," Augustus replied, his voice hard-edged with frustration. "If I knew that shit, I wouldn't be here waiting for her, that's for fuckin sure. Fucking hell, hold still, you dumb fucks." The last part seemed to be directed at whomever was on board the other ship. The Nightshade's starboard guns returned fire at the Raven's Dive, but the pilot of the other ship managed to avoid the energy bolts completely. "FUCK," he cursed again. "How's the port turret looking, Sparks?"
Sparks was the ship's engineer, straight from Sivad. The nickname 'Sparks' was given to him by the Captain at some time in the distant past, if their drunken anecdotes were to be believed. Swiftfoot couldn't remember his real name at the moment, except that it was insufferably stuffy, and there was about a seventy-five percent chance that it ended in a Roman numeral. "Still offline, sir. I'll need at least another fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to get it patched up, and that's just rigging it to work for now. If you -really- want it repaired-" Here, he was cut off by the captain.
"Stow it. This is no time to talk. You've got five minutes to get that thing up and running, or Raven's Dive is going to turn us into scrap." The captain certainly had a way with words. "We need both fucking turrets, or we're toast. Got it?" Another round of laser fire from the Nightshade was simply absorbed by the enemy ship's shields.
"Indeed," was the only response from the engineer.
"You hear that, furball? Keep em off our ass for five minutes. Surely even you can do that," the Captain growled into the intercom, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Swiftfoot's upper lip curled in the beginnings of a snarl, but she bit back the angry reply that wanted so badly to be said. Her ears lay flat against her head, and her tail twitched irritably. It was probably a good thing he couldn't see her right now. Well, he probably could see her if he looked over this way, but he was a little busy at the moment. The captain didn't like aliens, that much was obvious. Typical Martian. If there'd been any other pilots offered out by the agency, he certainly would have taken them first. But she'd been the only one at the time, and he'd been desperate. "Sure can," she said after a moment, then guided the ship into another change of course, this time straight up. Well, what currently qualified as 'up' for her, anyway. Space is funny that way.
The Raven's Dive followed, but pulled up short as Swiftfoot guided the Nightshade into a debris field at a near-suicidal speed. After a few moments of indecision, the pursuing ship took up the chase again, firing both turrets at the Nightshade to no avail. Nightshade returned fire, but the shot again was absorbed by the Dive's shields, wavelets of super-cooled plasma rippling outward from where the shot hit. "Fuck, I'd give my left nut to know what she's shielded with," the captain growled.
"Absorption shields, I'd wager," another crewmember replied. That would be Nathan, the other gunner. "Plasma. And I'll hold you to that later, Captain."
Augustus started to make a smart reply, but was cut off by the engineer. "Captain, the port turret's back online, but I won't guarantee that it'll stay that way for very long. I'd give her three volleys at the most."
Just then, the freighter shuddered under another hit. "About damn time, Sparks. Just let Nathan get in there already." the captain replied. Meanwhile, the freighter veered off to port again under the pilot's guidance. The captain fired the starboard turret, but missed the fleet form of the Dive completely.
When Nathan fired the jerry-rigged port turret, a sizzling sound could be heard from that direction almost immediately, and a shower of sparks lit up the bridge. "Oh, shit..." That would be Nathan, who was in the process of disengaging his safety harness. When he got himself un-harnessed, he threw himself out of the port gunnery station, landing heavily on the floor. He got up and brushed embers from his clothing with one hand, shaking his head and muttering as he clutched onto the back of the chair for dear life. The distinct smell of burnt wiring and insulation wafted through the bridge, making the felinoid pilot wrinkle her nose. The shot, however, was much better off than the turret itself - the volley found a weak spot in the Dive's plasma shields and punched through, the enemy ship reeling under the blow.
"Okay, so I was wrong about the three volleys..." the engineer said, but was drowned out by a triumphant whoop from the captain. It seemed like Sparks was talking to himself anyway.
"We've got em now," Augustus crowed, and fired again, targeting the same spot Nathan had hit. The Dive bucked and heaved, one of her engines now reduced to nothing but a smoking hunk of tortured metal. The captain drew a bead on the Dive's aft section, probably hoping to knock out her other engine.
And then, she was gone. Just like that. No telltale color burst to indicate she'd slid into transition space, no moving away into a debris field, and perhaps most importantly, no explosion. The Raven's Dive was simply gone. The captain had a word for that, or more accurately, a long string of words in Martian Latin. It was quite clear that most of them were vulgar in nature, despite the fact that they weren't in Standard. Swiftfoot busied herself checking over the sensors, to no avail. They gave the same readout both before and after the diagnostic cycle - there were no other ships in the vicinity.
"Fuck," Augustus muttered bitterly, shaking his head. "She's done that shit to us before. Whoever's flying that bird has some kind of game going on, and I don't even know the rules." With a sigh, he looked over toward the nav station where the Demarian sat. After a moment, a wry smirk twisted his lip. "I don't like you, and you don't like me. That much is clear. But that wasn't bad, furball. Once you got your head out of your ass, that is. I think we'll let you stick around for a while." There was a brief pause, and a chuckle. "But if you ever tell anyone I said that, not only will I deny it to my dying day, but I'll fucking declaw you myself. With a rusty butter knife."
A sly grin found its way across the Demarian's muzzle, causing her whiskers to bristle as she looked back at the Martian. "Aye, captain," she said, sketching a salute with one paw before turning back to the viewscreen. "So, what do we do now, captain?"
"We get back on our cargo run," Augustus replied with a frown and a vague little shrug. "Nothing else to be done for it. We're already behind schedule."
Swiftfoot frowned as well, her ears lying back for a moment. "What about the Dive?"
The Martian shrugged again. "She's hurting bad. We got a good hit in on her port engine. Looked like we slagged it. Most likely she limped home, wherever that is." Augustus paused for a moment, eyeing the viewscreen himself. "She'll turn up again. You can bet on it. But now we know how to handle her."
The Demarian nodded by way of reply, and put her paws to the controls, easing the ship inward from the outskirts of the system. "Heading for Resilience, then."
And ah, yes, back to that lovely daydream...
"Hey, cat, how bout a drink after we get this shit unloaded?" The inquiry interrupted her musings for the second time today. It came from the captain, so it couldn't very well be ignored. So much for the daydream. Then again, this couldn't be all bad. Maybe she'd get a good reference out of the Martian yet. "Dunno bout you, but I could use one after that," he prompted, eyeing the Demarian expectantly.
Swiftfoot risked a brief glance over her shoulder after the ship settled safely on the landing pad and grinned. "Sounds good, chief."
Augustus chuckled. "Hey guys, the cat's buying us all a drink. You heard her, yeah?"
A ragged chorus of cheers went up from the rest of the crew, and one of them patted the Demarian on the back reassuringly. "Don't worry. He gets everyone new like that," Nathan confided, then chuckled and gave a shrug. The Demarian rubbed behind her ears with one paw and laughed in disbelief, shaking her head all the while. "I hate to disappoint, but I haven't even gotten my first paycheck yet."
"Don't worry bout that none. I pay you, remember? I'll get it, then just take it out of your share once the cargo's moved." The captain grinned, then ducked out of the bridge. Moments later, he yelled back from the hallway, "Well? Come on, then, let's get moving. These crates ain't gonna unload themselves, you lazy shits."
"Aye, captain," the three still on the bridge replied, sharing a knowing glance, then starting for the corridor themselves.