To his surprise, instead of the sneering voice from before a clipped, no-nonsense woman's voice replied. “Sadly, Jian Dalar has been reassigned to the important task of scrubbing toilets. You have the pleasure of speaking to his replacement, Captain Ralin Bresac.”
Hardly a surprise; the Movement wasn't any more happy about screwups than any other oppressive, genocidal regime. “Sad to hear it. I enjoyed our previous encounter, especially the part where I got away. I was hoping it could become a habit . . . Dalar shaking his fist and uttering dire threats as I slipped through his fingers again and again. Unless of course he was stupid enough to come at me alone.”
Bresac didn't sound amused by the jab. “Believe me, Captain. My predecessor may no longer be adding a personal touch to this fight, but the Vindicator is very much looking forward to blowing you out of the sky for your crimes.”
Aiden laughed easily. “Well, I hope you're shaking your fist in futile rage as we blow you to the void.”
The other captain's voice also conveyed amusement. “I suppose we'll see. For now, perhaps this will set the mood of the battle.”
Before he could wonder what the blazes she was talking about, a deafening atonal screech came through the speakers.
Aiden swore, so surprised he jerked the ship slightly off course. “What the void is that?” he demanded as Ali cut off the communicators again, the sound fading back to the previous warning klaxons of battle blaring through the bridge. “They played that junk at us the last time we ran into them too, didn't they?”
The Caretaker hesitated, thoughtful, before shaking her head. “No idea, but it played over the ship's internal comms before I managed to block it.”
“Was it some sort of psychological attack to throw us off our game?” Dax asked, not looking the least bit nonplussed. “Or did it do something to our systems?”
“I don't see any signs of attempted hacking or other disruptions,” Barix replied. “Your first guess is probably right.”
“Well keep an eye on our critical systems, just in case,” Aiden growled as he pulled the Last Stand into a corkscrewing turn, maneuvering to give the gunner a clear shot at the enemy ship as they came into extreme firing range. “During the middle of a fight is the worst time for them to throw something unexpected at us.”
* * * * *
Lana froze at the burst of static that came over the speakers. What was that? Where had it come from? It almost seemed like she should recognize it, if she still had her memories. Almost like . . .
She was still frozen. Her muscles wouldn't obey her commands. What was happening to her?
Then, to her horror, she moved. Not the way she wanted, but in a purposeful stride to the locker where the shield room's tools were neatly stored in magnetic clamps, to keep them from flying everywhere if gravity or the inertial dampeners failed. Or if the ship was undergoing serious combat maneuvers, like right now.
Reaching inside, she withdrew a delicate tool and bent over the main buffer controls for the shielding system, getting to work. There was no visible result to her efforts, at least not here, but a few moments later the ship lurched into wild evasive maneuvers, and both Aiden and Belix began shouting at her.
“Shields just went down, what the blazes is going on?” the captain demanded.
“On my way!” the engines officer snapped. “Don't touch anything!”
The force controlling Lana cocked her head to activate her communicator, making her voice panicked. “I don't know what happened! I can't even see anything wrong, but the . . . um, hold on. It says there's a short in the main buffer controls? Residual damage from our last fight?”
“That's what I'm seeing,” Aiden agreed grimly. “That's delicate work you probably haven't learned yet, so like Belix said, don't touch anything. She'll be right there, and one or two Fixes when they get back inside.” His voice became sharper, more urgent, as he continued, obviously speaking to the Ishivi. “We're sitting ducks here, get those shields up!”
* * * * *
All-consuming void, the MI eggheads had actually been right. The Dormant had delivered as promised.
Dalar watched with deep satisfaction on the shields room's display as the fight progressed, the pirate ship evading wildly as its shields suddenly failed, while the Vindicator's twin three-burst lasers rained shots down at its vital systems.
Victory was at hand. His crew, pride of the Fleet, were about to blow the hated Last Stand out of the sky. Even if he'd been robbed the full glory of the kill, which would go to Bresac, enough would shine down on his humble position in the shields room to lift him out of his former disgrace.
His meteoric rise to the top began again here, now. And the fireworks that would celebrate his rebirth would come from their target blowing up. Soon, very soon.
Very, very soon.
Dalar frowned as the shots that should've torn into the pirate ship all missed, irritated at his gunner's incompetence. Then his irritation began to shift into worry as the second volley also missed.
He'd seen what little footage the Movement had been able to give them of the Last Stand in action. He knew Thorne was a daring and clever pilot who knew the full limits of his ship, and pushed them to the edge in combat. He knew the man's enigmatic gunner, about whom absolutely nothing was known, was the sort that struck terror into hearts of rookie sailors.
But he'd trained his crew to match that skill, to specifically counter the enemy's techniques. He would've put his chits on them to win any day of the week, felt a deep burning pride for their ability even after he'd been demoted in disgrace. And in spite of seeing what this pirate ship could manage when he'd engaged them at Brastos, his confidence had remained high.
But at that time, the
