The Voice of Treason
A short story about a pirate character I've had going for awhile. Her ship has a catchy name.
"This is Admiral Smoke of the Voice of Treason. I hereby take
charge of your vessel in the name of the Transastria Confederacy."
An aged coyote appeared on the screen of the bridge of a Republic
freighter, saying these words. Freighters had small crews, and much
cargo, and were mostly automated these days. Saying so, they were
incredibly easy prey for Admiral Smoke and her mixed crew of marqued
and impressed privateers.
"You have one last chance to surrender remote handling of the ship
to my pilot, or you will be boarded."
The hush of the officers in the bridge was telling. The captain was
pulling at his starched white collar. Intimidated by the old coyote
woman, and her tight fur and her hard eyes. From the bust-like
portrait of her shown on the communications screen, all he could see
what her face and her neck with its loose scruff leading down into
the rusted and metal-bared collar of an antique space suit.
She waited there, staring at the captain through the screen's static.
His crew stared, too, awaiting his decision...
"Battlestations," the captain barely croaked, and then cleared
his voice. "Battlestations!"
"Unfortunate call," the Voice of Treason replied. As soon as
that came through, the whole Republic ship shook, and the holographic
model turned red in several departments along one side. They were
broadsided, their shields useless against the Voice of Treason's
strong cannons. Airlocks engaged automatically, and air was vented
from the affected chambers to prevent fires, killing whoever was
within.
Then there was another shock, though it was not presented as a hull
breach. Then from that chamber and its neighboring ones came
desperate pleas to engage the airlocks and vent the oxygen, but they
were all silenced before anyone in the bridge could act.
Lock after lock was breached in a direct line to the bridge.
Security wouldn't get there in time, and the two security officers in
the room would be hard pressed to defend against the boarding party.
Hell, they were still in their dress blues.
There were two doors on either side of the captain's chair on his
raised platforms, the officers sitting at terminals in a sharp arch
around it. Those that were armed drew their pistols, the captain his
own... Then a pop. Neither door was breached yet. One of the
officers had just eaten his gun.
Silence... The airlocks were engaged. The room wasn't vented,
though. They knew better. Not enough emergency space suits for them
all.
Tales of what was found in the debris-strewn wake of the Voice of
Treason flit through many of their minds. Stories of the mutilated
corpses and the things that were done to the crewmembers impressed
into service within her ancient hull. The rumors of torture and
misery deep within the walls of the Fission-powered ship from the
last millennium were well known amongst Republic crewmen and women
operating in the middle rim or the colonies.
There was a tapping at the door. The captain glanced over his
shoulder at the communications screen, which was now showing just the
empty leather cushion of an old Officer's chair like he'd seen in the
Space Museum near the Core of Civilization. "Open up," came the
clear and surprisingly loud voice of the aged Admiral. She was on
the boarding party personally... That rumor held true. How could
she still, if she looked nearer to a hundred than fifty? "Open up
and we'll spare your lives."
One of the younger officers reached toward a control to do so. Or
maybe he'd just looked towards it. In a flight of fear the captain
spun and fired thrice at him, and instead of his fingers, the
crewmember's brains and teeth and hopes and memories found their way
to the surface of the control, sizzling.
"What was that?" came the steady voice of treason. "Ah yes,
Republic protocol..." There was a thump against the door, the old
Admiral leaning on it. The Captain considered trying to fire through
the door, but those thick bulkheads were nuclear-proof. "You'll be
eating each other alive in there. Best to... Relieve the Captain
there of duty, if you value your lives."
The captain turned around to his crew. The desperate, scared bunch.
He waved his gun wildly. Mutiny? "I've got enough charge to have
at all of you!" the Captain cried out.
"He doesn't," came the Voice of Treason, "And 'sides, I figure
that at least one of you can quickdraw."
The lower officers began to mumble. One twitched his right hand
toward his holster, and the Captain jumped and fired. A sizzling
burn right through the fine-pressed coffee colored uniform, and the
flesh beneath it. Not even a gasp as the Chief of Communications
slumped down, never to rise again.
Now too many paws reached for their holsters, and too many ready
barrels did the Captain have to look down to see the eyes of the
soon-to-be mutineers.
The doors were open soonafter. The carnage of bodies in the bridge
stank of burnt fur and fried blood. There were but three left barely
standing, wounded, one cat on his side on the floor clutching a burnt
photograph of his family as he choked on his own collapsing lung.
"Pity," came the Voice of Treason accompanied by the heavy sound
of metallic boots on the floor. They were more than boots, however.
Each leg up to above the knee was replaced with a crude mechanical
facsimile of the digitigrade legs of the Canis Latrans, the metal all
tarnish and patina. The old bitch upon those legs was neither
hunched nor frail, though thin in her old space suit. Those legs were
dated to the same age as the ship, from the era of in-atmosphere
fighting, when legs were replaced to keep more blood in the upper
body when experiencing the high gravitational forced.
She strode over to the dying cat, and kneeled over him. He tried to
cower away, but she put a paw on his quivering shoulder. "Don't
worry, they'll be told you died like a hero." She then drew her
own sidearm, and discharged a chemically-propelled round into his
temple.
The cleanup didn't take long. The ship was hacked and hauled until
its cargo could be offloaded. Surviving crewmembers were brought
onboard the Voice of Treason if they so wished, and then the ship was
stripped and vented of air and set to drift with the distress beacon
on.
Impressment was an easy process for Admiral Smoke. Her brightworks
were no longer bright and her halls dark and tight, but no one would
want to be jettisoned into deep space without a suit. Most chose to
join her crew, and found it to be no less hospitable than Republic
space-side life. The ship was old, the Admiral older, the guts cruel
and crude. However, there was one thing that the Voice of Treason
did understand. Hope was the one fuel that would keep a creature
going. No one wanted to die alone in space. And so long as they
could draw breath, there was hope they'd either see home again, or
make for themselves a new home...