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“They have cloaking?” Gardon questions.
Carvallian trader ships are not equipped with cloaking devices. The clunky ships are strictly vessels of transport.
“Check all your displays and look for dark anomalies. There is nothing out here for them to hide behind.”
Our light ships fan out on a search grid. For several clicks there’s no more conversation.
“I’ve got it! It’s in the Zeta quadrant!” Zaycor cries.
All four fighters turn as one to the far left corner of the quadrant where a tiny, uninhabited planet barely shields the cloaked ship. Obviously their cloaking is sub-par. Luckily for us.
“He has to uncloak to move.”
“There he is,”My firm lips quirk in a grim, predatory smile. One that would chill my enemy’s blood if they could see it.
“Carvallian trader ship…respond,” I growl on an open comm line.
Two clicks pass and then the ship finally hails the fleet.
“Arkadian fighter, why have you blocked our trade?”
“Who is this? Why have you not responded onscreen?”
“Forgive us, our onscreen display is down. We hit an asteroid a day ago and it has not been fixed.”
I snort. There’s no asteroids anywhere near that ship.
“One click, Carvallian trader.”
I turn off the open comm line. “Varnak, he’s lying.”
“I know. What do you want to do, Commander?”
“We need to get on that ship.”
“Put your ships on standby pilot. Get your gear on.”
I press the standby pilot and stand, stretching my long, muscular body. I walk to the cabinet in the wall which opens silently when he presses a depression in it. He pulls a suit out and quickly steps into it. The lightweight fabric immediately tightens, becoming a second skin. He pulls the helmet from the back over his head. The visor clears and he hits the button on his wrist communicator.
Slipping the survival pack on, he growls, “meet you at the ship.”
He steps into the vacuum and the door slides shut with an audible hiss behind him. He presses the button, opening the rear door of the ship. He can see his men exiting their ships, each one of them throwing stars with an electric signature at the trading ship. That signature directs the suits when they hit their target.
I hit the silent pack on my back and grin harshly when the short, careful micro-bursts begin the quick trip over. Each fire is carefully timed not to be immediately visible as anything but an electric burst out in space that can’t be tracked.
Varnak reaches the ship first. He finds the rear cargo door. His hands find the box that holds the electrical array. He overrides the box and the back entrance vacuum, shielding our motions from the ships security array. All of us slide inside and eye our surroundings, senses on high alert.
I gesture forward. My men nod, stoic and focused on the mission at hand. Something’s going on here and whatever it is, it’s probably not good.
We slide forward silently, gliding like the fierce hunters we are. If there is a problem, someone will pay.
A shrill female scream as we round a corner makes my blood run cold.
I turn to my men and it’s obvious from their glares that they’ve all come to the same conclusion I have since I heard that scream.
There’s no reason a Carvallian trade ship should have females on board. At least no legitimate, logical reason.
Slavers. This is fucking bad.
