“Do something, you dumb fuck!” yelled Regers.
Frue gave a snarl back. “What can I do, if we’re reduced to half impulse?”
“Gun them down!”
“Right, a Class B Orb?”
A shockwave ran to port; a bright flare bounced off their shields, nearly compromising the hull.
Yul raced for the weapons console, a task normally allotted to Greer or Hurd. Hurd stood blinking dumbly. The whiffs of the alien air must have affected his brain.
Regers shook his head in disgust. “Move this ship!” He leaped to the console and jerked the control out of Frue’s hand before the pilot could react. Regers jammed the lever to an upright position and the ship lurched out of its smooth glide and stable orbit.
Frue croaked in horror. Greer was ripped from his umbilical cord and went twirling out into space, toward the yellow planet.
“You fucking cold-hearted bastard,” Frue cried. “What are you, some kind psycho? You just killed Greer.”
“Right, I did your dirty work for you, Frue. And your alternative was to get us all killed? Maybe check your logic there, Frue.”
“Screw you, Regers,” said Frue. “How do you know we couldn’t have got Greer in?”
Yul glared in disbelief. “You’re a callous bastard, Regers. No doubt about it. Should have been you out there.” He bounded two strides to lay the man low. “We’ll settle this after this is over. Battle stations!”
Clenching his fists, he let his anger subside, though his blood was boiling and the strong metal in his left fist ached to pound Regers into the ground. They needed the cretin until the mission was complete. One of these days Regers’ heart of darkness would bury him.
Though he hated to admit it, Yul knew Regers had a point. If they didn’t take action they’d be targeted by ship fire. But perhaps Frue could have dodged the Mark IV at sublight speed long enough to get Greer back in the hatch. Then again, maybe not.
Frue muttered obscenities while Regers snorted. “You think I’m going to trust your goody-goody evasions, Frue? Look at what happened to us last time with those locust freaks. You played cat and mouse and we almost got blown out of the sky. Remember?”
“Do something, faster!” growled Hurd, now joggling the weapons console. He loosed bolts of ion-fire at the invading craft. The photon blasts glanced harmlessly off the attack Orb’s shields.
“They’re closing in.” Yul’s sharp eyes scrutinized the oncoming craft on the viewscreen.
The Albatross rocked to enemy fire. Their reserve shields were low. Only a matter of time before they would fizzle out.
“Zikri!—I hate Zikri,” Yul muttered.
“You know Zikri M.O.,” Frue wheezed. “Take your ship for parts, kill you or sell you to the bloody Mentera.”
“Whatever. Let’s just get the fuck away from them,” Regers growled, cocking his blaster. His eyes darted every which way.
Frue stabbed out at the screen. “It’s a mid-size scavenger vessel. Look! Class B, as I said. Likely a skeleton crew, but—”
“They’re deadly, we know.” Yul scanned the viewscreen and racked his brain for a solution. He saw no weakness in the massive Orb pocked with metal spikes that drove in on them like an undersea mine.
The Albatross weaved like a firefly. Zikri uro bombs lit up the space outside the rear fins. The hull caught scatterings of explosions. Red flames burned from starboard to port viewports. Frue threw up his hands in despair.
The Albatross decelerated to a standstill. The Orb loomed ever closer in the viewscreen.
A tractor beam had caught the ship. Yul could not mistake that faintly perceptible jar tugging at his spine and backward drag of deceleration. Silence. A low throb of ominous frequencies. Yul’s gut plummeted like a deap sea mine. Light dimmed, as a shadow fell over the ship. Now the vessel began to move back toward the larger menace.
Frue jammed the thrusters to max. Nothing.
“Do something!” croaked Regers.
“There’s nothing to do.”
Regers slapped his arms down with frustration.
Yul watched the rear viewport screen and caught twisted glimpses of strange metal walls spiked with barbs closing in on him. The Orb’s tractor hatch closed; starless darkness wrapped around them, as black as a mummy’s tomb.
The dull echoing thud of clamps sounded on the outer hull. Yul could hear the scratching of probes, instruments, alien sensors grinding on the surrounding metal. He could count the times this had happened to him before on one hand. Now it was happening again, though he had vowed never to be caught like a fish in a net.
“Christ!” He leaped to his feet, leaving the command post. “They’re going to board us! Lower the outer visors.”
Frue hit a switch. A whir of machinery gave way to titanized plates sliding over the viewport glass around the ship’s hull.
“Follow me,” grunted Yul. “Grab as much gear and weapons as you can. Haul ass back to the bridge.” He raced to the midship’s bay. The others offered no argument. Fast on his heels, they raided the weapon stores like thieves.
“Suit up!” Yul ordered the others. “Take extra adhesive in case your suits get punctured. The Zikri’ll hit us with everything they’ve got, nerve gas first—or a concussion blast.”
“Both, if we’re unlucky,” grunted Regers.
Yul snatched at pieces of body armour. “We’re going to need these too if we’re to stay alive.”
Yul’s mind raced, his commando sense taking over as he rummaged through the lockers for his suit. They’d be expecting panic-stricken crewmembers.
He grimaced. Not if he could help it. He focused on the task at hand. He grabbed whatever concussion bombs remained in the lower weapons shelves.
Frue gaped at him. “Are you crazy? You’ll blow us sky high.”
“Ever hear of surprise? They won’t expect it. We’re already goners, Frue. Give them something
