Of Stars

Ace of Stars: II

The commodore didn't bother looking through the window of the bombarded firing unit before placing his hand upon the lever. A quick scan confirmed his authority and he had pulled it down within a second.

As he walked back down the hallway a metal wall lowered in front of the door of the lieutenant's unit, slowly diminishing the sound of rasped and wretched screaming from within. There were small fires in the surrounding area of the ship interior, and the air was dense with a concoction of smoke and the putrid aura of burnt flesh and circuits. 

Snarling, the commodore retrieved a beautiful human-embroidered scarlet handkerchief from his pocket and coughed into it. He patted his lips, folded it neatly, and placed it back into his breast pocket. 

As he did he noticed a small piece of paper beneath his right cavalier boot. It was a photograph of a plain-looking young woman, its glossy finish stained and smudged with dirt and blood, probably blasted into the hallway along with the rest of the debris. 

He walked over it. 

As he entered the bridge of the ship he glared at the personnel manning the helmsman station. "We are not losing any more of our guns," he said, each word more articulate and violent than the last. "Is that clear?" 

One sharp hand motion signaled for three lieutenants standing guard to head for the remaining firing units that were still operational. And, hopefully, not manned by another weak-willed, insolent cretin. In his last minute of life, declaring himself a traitor to His Majesty.  

And yet he had been their finest gunman. 

He walked over to helmsman, standing over the man oppressively. He looked out into the scene beyond the glass wall of the bridge. There, explosions and lasers decorated the dark canvas of space. And far beyond it, the very focal point of the painting was the spaceship they were after. "Lieutenant, I want a status report on that ark."

"Yes, sir," replied the young man. The commodore noted that his left hand was tight around the thrust lever, knuckles so white it could have been bone. And his right hand was quivering ever so slightly over the control panel. The commodore placed his hand on the man's shoulder. The lieutenant stopped breathing for a moment, then inhaled. "We've been in pursuit for almost four hours now."

"And are we gaining on them?"

"Yes, sir."

"So we will catch them then, won't we?" His fingers dug a little further into the helmsman's shoulder. 

The man didn't respond right away. 

The commodore's head whipped towards him. "Won't we, Lieutenant?" He was losing control of the tone of his voice, and the ferocity within his heart spilled into his words. 

"Yes, well, we would, but..." With this, the helmsman looked at one of the computer screens in front of him, displaying a map with the ark's location in relation to their man o' war. The commodore could in fact see that they were rapidly approaching the ark, and would most definitely be upon them within the hour. 

And yet the helmsman looked stunned, paralyzed even. "But," he continued. He shook his head. "...it's their trajectory. It doesn't make sense. The route they're taking isn't a defensive one. They're— they're not headed towards the Basurian Field to hide. Most pirate ships would head there to hide—"

The commodore slammed his fisted hand onto the metal surface of the station console. "Enough! I don't give a damn about the ark's trajectory. We will continue to pursue it regardless. You are commandeering a man o' war of His Majesty's fleet, so you better fucking act like it.  And that ship," he slammed his finger onto the HUD glass, "has evaded the Navy for years. Years, Lieutenant." He laughed coldly, and he raised his chin.

"But not from me. And not from you." He inhaled through his nose, his temples pounding furiously. He listened to the bursts of fire in the distance and suddenly became overwhelmed, consumed with one singular notion: glory.

Oh, the glory of capturing the most-wanted vessel in the solar system. The glory of acquiring the captain whose name was as infamous as the ship itself, and whose demise a fantasy of every young naval officer-in-training. The glory of putting a bullet through the back of her head. 

"Increase cannon fire," the commodore commanded, unaware of the fact that he had been smiling. 

"But, commodore—"

The smile snapped back into a snarl. He released his hold on the man's shoulder. "Fire!" he yelled, eyes wide and spit flying onto the controls. A cannon launched from the port side gun, jerking the ship sideways. 

"Commodore!"

The helmsman now, for the first time, turned completely towards him and locked eyes with him. And in those eyes, resided something deadly. Something more deadly than hatred, than malevolence. 

Fear.

The helmsman was, in spite of it all, afraid. "Commodore," he said, helplessly. 

"She means to fly straight into the sun."