A SEPARATE LAW: PART FOUR
Undefined Undefined A Separate LawContent
English
Well now, isn’t this the perfect welcome to Taranis, garden spot of Human-controlled space?
A pair of obvious pirates were closing on a trader just at the edge of Gates’ sensor coverage. He’d been tracking developments for a while, watching as the captain of the long-hauler, trying to escape the two vessels behind it, blundered across the pirate lying doggo along his path. The third pirate went active with his sensors, closing the sack.
The trade-ship captain compounded his error, slowing when he should try and shoot past the lone ship along his trajectory: a stern chase was still longest … But no, he’d slowed, the course alteration only serving to keep him in the weapons envelope of the pirates that much longer.
Missiles traced between the pirate and quarry. EMP hashed his sensors as the opening salvo of the pirates downed the trader’s weak shields. Despite the blurring of the sensor image, Gates knew what was next: a high-speed pass with guns, aimed at damaging drives and shield generators, and destroying whatever weapons the owner had mounted.
Gates felt his upper lip curling, conflicted. Bounty hunters rarely took on pirates on the prowl, preferring to take down individual bounties while the pirate was planetside, hopefully drunk, and certainly well away from ship-destroying weapons that might put the hunter out of business. It was a practical tactic, and one that, if ignored, would raise questions about his cover.
If everyone kept to their present course and speed, their trajectories would close enough to get them inside his missile envelope in just under three minutes.
Someone always survives these things, and they always talk. Can’t have ‘em talking about how I blasted in for no guarantee of cash for my efforts.
The trader’s emergency beacon lit up.
Stupid. Should have just given in and lost the cargo. There’s insurance for that kind of thing. Now the pirates’ll take it out of their hides, literally.
The tags on the transmission identified the vessel as a T-XIII, one of the cheapest cargo-haulers plying the space lanes. Capable, barely, of transiting jump points, they had large holds and minimal crew requirements, making them the piece of crap of choice for down-at-the-heels traders.
Two minutes before entering engagement range on his missiles, the tactical plot beeped. The hauler had stopped maneuvering.
Damn it. Gates increased throttle by twenty percent, increasing his rate of closure. Maybe the pirates will spook, they see me coming.
He ran the drive signatures of all the vessels against the 325’s database of ship profiles. The one that had been lying in wait was a Cutlass, as was one of the pair of chasers. The other chaser was a Caterpillar, a modified cargo hauler; big, slow and certainly not going to win any battles of maneuver.
Gates checked the tactical plot, running a missile solution on the closing Cutlass and checking the positions of the other vessels. The Caterpillar was almost on top of the hauler, probably using its tractors to haul the cargo vessel in.
The general comms came to life: “Fellow traveller, you need to make for elsewhere.”
Polite breed of pirate I’ve found. Polite and nearsighted. Can’t see what he’s facing.
Gates smiled as the range ticked down. Once he had the other ship deep enough into his envelope, he launched.
It took a measurable moment for the sensors to report their findings to the pirate, during which the comm warning continued: “I won’t warn you aga-“ the speaker cut off with a squeal of panic as the pilot realized he’d gone from fox to hen. He didn’t react well, punching out countermeasures far too early and jerking his stick around. His indecision killed a lot of speed for no gain. He ended slower than he’d begun, and moving away from his support and almost parallel to Gates.
Gates punched the throttle and went straight in at the Cutlass. The targeting computer chuckled as it worked out a targeting solution on the other vessels. If the first Cutlass survived the pair of missiles sent its way, Gates would end him with guns.
Gates adjusted course, slid sideways as the ECM suite lit up with warnings.
He ignored them for the moment, spitting his own pair of missiles; both rocketing toward the other Cutlass. Gates lined up the mass driver on the first Cutlass and snapped a burst of hypervelocity rounds at him.
He needn’t have bothered. Both missiles from his first salvo easily overtook the Cutlass and its inexperienced pilot: the first detonation downed its shields a split second before the follow-up exploded right beside the vessel’s cockpit. Several heartbeats later the hypervelocity rounds from the mass driver ripped into the flank of the Cutlass just forward of her drive section, blowing great chunks of armor and internal components free. Bleeding atmo, the Cutlass pinwheeled into the long, dark night.
He tore his gaze away, saw the pair of bright pinpoints of their drives as the missiles raced at him from the remaining Cutlass. He waited as the warnings came more and more shrilly.
At the last instant he sideslipped again, dumping countermeasures to continue along his original vector. Both missiles bit into false signatures, tiny electronic minds deceived. Spheres of expanding plasma lit the black behind Gates. He adjusted course a third time, pushed the throttle to the stops.
He’d lost track of his own missiles, had to glance at the plot. This pilot was better.
Must have avoided one of the blasts entirely. His shields were just coming back on line. The Cutlass was punching it, maneuvering to come at Gates from the side, hammer to the Caterpillar’s anvil.
Gates lined up on the Caterpillar, trusting to the 325’s better speed to get him in and out before the Cutlass could peg him with sufficient cannon fire to overload his shields.
Entering range, he snapped the 325 into a roll and held both firing studs down. Coherent beams snapped across the vacuum even as a stream of metal splinters followed at a velocity that was slower on a scale that only machines could appreciate.
The turret on the Caterpillar got into action.
Gates slammed the yoke forward and then hard left, stamping his right foot down at the same time, then immediately hammered the yoke to the right. Thrusters fired, yanking the 325 down and left before rolling in a righthand spin that leveled out ‘below’ the Caterpillar in its current orientation, preventing the turret gunner from targeting him. Turret gunnery required close coordination between pilot and gunner — something most pirate scum didn’t practice.
He brought his own nose up and fired into the belly of the Cat, hits spalling armor and releasing superheated metal vapor to glow against the black. Something broke loose inside the Cat as Gates straightened out, a half-dome of fire erupting like a glowing blister from a directional thruster.
More warnings blatted, this time from his shields. The Cutlass had come in when Gates slowed, managing several hits with its laser cannon.
Good pilot. Better, by far, than his wingman.
He pushed the comm button, broadcasting even as he maneuvered to shake the Cutlass: “Gonna have the bounty on one of you. Don’t need more. Should you want to run, I won’t be chasing you.”
Several more cannon shots tapped against his shields.
Still adding velocity, Gates cranked the 325 into a widening spiral, pushing the ship and its compensators to the maximum.
The Cutlass followed, inferior thrust costing her position with each passing second, despite the Cutlass’ better turning capability.
Starting at the apex of a turn, Gates reversed course. The world grayed, G-forces crushing despite compensators. Breathing hard and holding onto consciousness with an act of will, Gates lined up on the Cutlass and pressed both firing studs again.
Her shields buckled under the high cyclic rate of the 325’s laser cannon, then the hull cracked open under the flail of the mass driver’s munitions.
The Cutlass pilot’s gunnery was damn good: a series of successive shots managing to down the 325’s shields before wrecking the empty starboard missile pod and cracking armor all along that stretch of wing.
“Call it even, then,” the pirate’s transmission came as the Cutlass shot past Gates’ rapidly decelerating ship.
Gates turned but checked fire as the pirate continued to add velocity and run for it; a deal was a deal, after all.
The Caterpillar was already making best possible speed for the depths of the system.
He turned for the hauler. The comm went active again: “This is Captain Charles Zhou of Saint Claire’s Kiss. Please identify.”
“Arminius Gates, bounty hunter. The pirates won’t be back.”
“Oh, thank the Buddha.”
What followed was far too many tearful thank-yous that Gates found increasingly irritating. It took some doing, but the captain eventually got their primary systems up and running. Some hours later Gates was escorting the trade ship Saint Claire’s Kiss to the jump point for Nemo, trying to politely turn down Captain Zhou’s dubious offers of assistance he or his crew might render their savior.
. . .to be continued
A pair of obvious pirates were closing on a trader just at the edge of Gates’ sensor coverage. He’d been tracking developments for a while, watching as the captain of the long-hauler, trying to escape the two vessels behind it, blundered across the pirate lying doggo along his path. The third pirate went active with his sensors, closing the sack.
The trade-ship captain compounded his error, slowing when he should try and shoot past the lone ship along his trajectory: a stern chase was still longest … But no, he’d slowed, the course alteration only serving to keep him in the weapons envelope of the pirates that much longer.
Missiles traced between the pirate and quarry. EMP hashed his sensors as the opening salvo of the pirates downed the trader’s weak shields. Despite the blurring of the sensor image, Gates knew what was next: a high-speed pass with guns, aimed at damaging drives and shield generators, and destroying whatever weapons the owner had mounted.
Gates felt his upper lip curling, conflicted. Bounty hunters rarely took on pirates on the prowl, preferring to take down individual bounties while the pirate was planetside, hopefully drunk, and certainly well away from ship-destroying weapons that might put the hunter out of business. It was a practical tactic, and one that, if ignored, would raise questions about his cover.
If everyone kept to their present course and speed, their trajectories would close enough to get them inside his missile envelope in just under three minutes.
Someone always survives these things, and they always talk. Can’t have ‘em talking about how I blasted in for no guarantee of cash for my efforts.
The trader’s emergency beacon lit up.
Stupid. Should have just given in and lost the cargo. There’s insurance for that kind of thing. Now the pirates’ll take it out of their hides, literally.
The tags on the transmission identified the vessel as a T-XIII, one of the cheapest cargo-haulers plying the space lanes. Capable, barely, of transiting jump points, they had large holds and minimal crew requirements, making them the piece of crap of choice for down-at-the-heels traders.
Two minutes before entering engagement range on his missiles, the tactical plot beeped. The hauler had stopped maneuvering.
Damn it. Gates increased throttle by twenty percent, increasing his rate of closure. Maybe the pirates will spook, they see me coming.
He ran the drive signatures of all the vessels against the 325’s database of ship profiles. The one that had been lying in wait was a Cutlass, as was one of the pair of chasers. The other chaser was a Caterpillar, a modified cargo hauler; big, slow and certainly not going to win any battles of maneuver.
Gates checked the tactical plot, running a missile solution on the closing Cutlass and checking the positions of the other vessels. The Caterpillar was almost on top of the hauler, probably using its tractors to haul the cargo vessel in.
The general comms came to life: “Fellow traveller, you need to make for elsewhere.”
Polite breed of pirate I’ve found. Polite and nearsighted. Can’t see what he’s facing.
Gates smiled as the range ticked down. Once he had the other ship deep enough into his envelope, he launched.
It took a measurable moment for the sensors to report their findings to the pirate, during which the comm warning continued: “I won’t warn you aga-“ the speaker cut off with a squeal of panic as the pilot realized he’d gone from fox to hen. He didn’t react well, punching out countermeasures far too early and jerking his stick around. His indecision killed a lot of speed for no gain. He ended slower than he’d begun, and moving away from his support and almost parallel to Gates.
Gates punched the throttle and went straight in at the Cutlass. The targeting computer chuckled as it worked out a targeting solution on the other vessels. If the first Cutlass survived the pair of missiles sent its way, Gates would end him with guns.
Gates adjusted course, slid sideways as the ECM suite lit up with warnings.
He ignored them for the moment, spitting his own pair of missiles; both rocketing toward the other Cutlass. Gates lined up the mass driver on the first Cutlass and snapped a burst of hypervelocity rounds at him.
He needn’t have bothered. Both missiles from his first salvo easily overtook the Cutlass and its inexperienced pilot: the first detonation downed its shields a split second before the follow-up exploded right beside the vessel’s cockpit. Several heartbeats later the hypervelocity rounds from the mass driver ripped into the flank of the Cutlass just forward of her drive section, blowing great chunks of armor and internal components free. Bleeding atmo, the Cutlass pinwheeled into the long, dark night.
He tore his gaze away, saw the pair of bright pinpoints of their drives as the missiles raced at him from the remaining Cutlass. He waited as the warnings came more and more shrilly.
At the last instant he sideslipped again, dumping countermeasures to continue along his original vector. Both missiles bit into false signatures, tiny electronic minds deceived. Spheres of expanding plasma lit the black behind Gates. He adjusted course a third time, pushed the throttle to the stops.
He’d lost track of his own missiles, had to glance at the plot. This pilot was better.
Must have avoided one of the blasts entirely. His shields were just coming back on line. The Cutlass was punching it, maneuvering to come at Gates from the side, hammer to the Caterpillar’s anvil.
Gates lined up on the Caterpillar, trusting to the 325’s better speed to get him in and out before the Cutlass could peg him with sufficient cannon fire to overload his shields.
Entering range, he snapped the 325 into a roll and held both firing studs down. Coherent beams snapped across the vacuum even as a stream of metal splinters followed at a velocity that was slower on a scale that only machines could appreciate.
The turret on the Caterpillar got into action.
Gates slammed the yoke forward and then hard left, stamping his right foot down at the same time, then immediately hammered the yoke to the right. Thrusters fired, yanking the 325 down and left before rolling in a righthand spin that leveled out ‘below’ the Caterpillar in its current orientation, preventing the turret gunner from targeting him. Turret gunnery required close coordination between pilot and gunner — something most pirate scum didn’t practice.
He brought his own nose up and fired into the belly of the Cat, hits spalling armor and releasing superheated metal vapor to glow against the black. Something broke loose inside the Cat as Gates straightened out, a half-dome of fire erupting like a glowing blister from a directional thruster.
More warnings blatted, this time from his shields. The Cutlass had come in when Gates slowed, managing several hits with its laser cannon.
Good pilot. Better, by far, than his wingman.
He pushed the comm button, broadcasting even as he maneuvered to shake the Cutlass: “Gonna have the bounty on one of you. Don’t need more. Should you want to run, I won’t be chasing you.”
Several more cannon shots tapped against his shields.
Still adding velocity, Gates cranked the 325 into a widening spiral, pushing the ship and its compensators to the maximum.
The Cutlass followed, inferior thrust costing her position with each passing second, despite the Cutlass’ better turning capability.
Starting at the apex of a turn, Gates reversed course. The world grayed, G-forces crushing despite compensators. Breathing hard and holding onto consciousness with an act of will, Gates lined up on the Cutlass and pressed both firing studs again.
Her shields buckled under the high cyclic rate of the 325’s laser cannon, then the hull cracked open under the flail of the mass driver’s munitions.
The Cutlass pilot’s gunnery was damn good: a series of successive shots managing to down the 325’s shields before wrecking the empty starboard missile pod and cracking armor all along that stretch of wing.
“Call it even, then,” the pirate’s transmission came as the Cutlass shot past Gates’ rapidly decelerating ship.
Gates turned but checked fire as the pirate continued to add velocity and run for it; a deal was a deal, after all.
The Caterpillar was already making best possible speed for the depths of the system.
He turned for the hauler. The comm went active again: “This is Captain Charles Zhou of Saint Claire’s Kiss. Please identify.”
“Arminius Gates, bounty hunter. The pirates won’t be back.”
“Oh, thank the Buddha.”
What followed was far too many tearful thank-yous that Gates found increasingly irritating. It took some doing, but the captain eventually got their primary systems up and running. Some hours later Gates was escorting the trade ship Saint Claire’s Kiss to the jump point for Nemo, trying to politely turn down Captain Zhou’s dubious offers of assistance he or his crew might render their savior.
. . .to be continued
German
Nun, ist das nicht der perfekte Willkommensgruß an Taranis, dem Gartenplatz des von Menschen kontrollierten Raumes?
Ein Paar offensichtlicher Piraten näherten sich einem Händler direkt am Rande der Sensorabdeckung von Gates. Er hatte die Entwicklung eine Weile verfolgt, beobachtet, wie der Kapitän des Langstreckentransporteurs, der versuchte, den beiden dahinter liegenden Schiffen zu entkommen, über den Piraten stolperte und auf seinem Weg lag. Der dritte Pirat wurde mit seinen Sensoren aktiv und schloss den Sack.
Der Handelsschiffskapitän verschlimmerte seinen Fehler und verlangsamte, wann immer er versuchen sollte, entlang seiner Flugbahn an dem einzelnen Schiff vorbeizuschießen: Eine strenge Jagd war immer noch am längsten.... Aber nein, er hatte verlangsamt, die Kursänderung diente nur dazu, ihn noch viel länger im Waffenumschlag der Piraten zu halten.
Raketen, die zwischen dem Piraten und dem Steinbruch gefunden wurden. EMP hämmerte seine Sensoren, als die Eröffnungssalve der Piraten die schwachen Schilde des Händlers niederstreckte. Trotz der Unschärfe des Sensorbildes wusste Gates, was als nächstes kam: ein Hochgeschwindigkeitspass mit Kanonen, der darauf abzielte, Antriebe und Schildgeneratoren zu beschädigen und die vom Besitzer angebrachten Waffen zu zerstören.
Gates fühlte, wie sich seine Oberlippe kräuselte, widersprüchlich. Kopfgeldjäger nahmen es selten mit Piraten auf der Jagd auf und zogen es vor, einzelne Kopfgelder einzulösen, während der Pirat auf dem Planeten lag, hoffentlich betrunken, und sicherlich weit weg von schiffszerstörerischen Waffen, die den Jäger aus dem Geschäft bringen könnten. Es war eine praktische Taktik, die, wenn sie ignoriert würde, Fragen über seine Tarnung aufwerfen würde.
Wenn alle an ihrem jetzigen Kurs und ihrer Geschwindigkeit festhielten, würden ihre Flugbahnen nahe genug sein, um sie in knapp drei Minuten in seine Raketenhülle zu bringen.
Jemand überlebt diese Dinge immer, und sie reden immer. Ich kann nicht zulassen, dass sie darüber reden, wie ich reingeplatzt bin, ohne eine Garantie für Geld für meine Bemühungen zu haben.
Das Notlichtfeuer des Händlers leuchtete auf.
Dumm. Ich hätte einfach nachgeben und die Ladung verlieren sollen. Es gibt eine Versicherung für so etwas. Jetzt werden die Piraten es buchstäblich aus ihren Verstecken nehmen.
Die Tags auf dem Getriebe identifizierten das Schiff als T-XIII, einen der billigsten Frachtschiffe, der die Raumfahrtlinien bedient. Sie waren kaum in der Lage, Sprungbremsen zu überwinden, hatten große Laderäume und minimale Anforderungen an die Besatzung, was sie zum bevorzugten Stück Scheiße für Händler macht, die auf der Stelle treten.
Zwei Minuten bevor er mit seinen Raketen in Angriffsreichweite kam, piepste die taktische Handlung. Der Schlepper hatte aufgehört zu manövrieren.
Verdammt noch mal. Gates erhöhte das Gaspedal um zwanzig Prozent und erhöhte damit seine Schließrate. Vielleicht erschrecken die Piraten, sie sehen mich kommen.
Er führte die Antriebssignaturen aller Schiffe mit der Datenbank der 325er Schiffsprofile durch. Derjenige, der auf der Lauer lag, war ein Entermesser, ebenso wie einer der beiden Verfolger. Der andere Verfolger war eine Caterpillar, ein modifizierter Frachtschlepper; groß, langsam und sicherlich nicht in der Lage, Manöverkämpfe zu gewinnen.
Gates überprüfte die taktische Handlung, führte eine Raketenlösung auf dem sich schließenden Entermesser durch und überprüfte die Positionen der anderen Schiffe. Die Caterpillar befand sich fast auf dem Schlepper und benutzte wahrscheinlich ihre Traktoren, um das Frachtschiff einzuziehen.
Die allgemeine Kommunikation erwachte zum Leben: "Mitreisender, du musst dich woanders umsehen."
Ich habe eine höfliche Rasse von Piraten gefunden. Höflich und kurzsichtig. Ich kann nicht sehen, was er vor sich hat.
Gates lächelte, als die Reichweite nach unten tippte. Als er das andere Schiff tief genug in seinem Umschlag hatte, startete er.
Es dauerte einen messbaren Moment, bis die Sensoren ihre Ergebnisse an den Piraten weitergaben, während dessen die Kommunikationswarnung fortgesetzt wurde: "Ich warne dich nicht vor Panik, als der Pilot erkannte, dass er von Fuchs zu Henne gegangen war." Er reagierte nicht gut, stieß viel zu früh Gegenmaßnahmen aus und zog seinen Stock herum. Seine Unentschlossenheit tötete eine Menge Geschwindigkeit ohne Gewinn. Er endete langsamer, als er begonnen hatte, und ging von seiner Unterstützung weg und fast parallel zu Gates.
Gates drückte das Gaspedal und ging direkt auf das Entermesser zu. Der Zielrechner kicherte, als er eine Ziellösung für die anderen Schiffe ausarbeitete. Wenn der erste Entermesser überlebte, schickte das Raketenpaar seinen Weg, Gates würde ihn mit Waffen erledigen.
Die Tore passten den Kurs an, rutschten seitwärts, als die ECM-Suite mit Warnungen aufleuchtete.
Er ignorierte sie im Moment und spuckte sein eigenes Raketenpaar aus; beide raketen auf das andere Entermesser zu. Gates reihte den Massenfahrer auf dem ersten Entermesser auf und schnappte einen Ausbruch von Hypervelocity-Runden auf ihn.
Er hätte sich nicht darum kümmern müssen. Beide Raketen aus seiner ersten Salve überholten leicht den Entermesser und seinen unerfahrenen Piloten: Die erste Detonation senkte seine Schilde einen Bruchteil einer Sekunde, bevor die Nachfolge direkt neben dem Cockpit des Schiffes explodierte. Einige Herzschläge später riss die Hypervelocity-Runden vom Massenfahrer in die Flanke des Entermessers direkt vor ihrem Antriebsbereich und blies große Stücke Rüstung und innere Komponenten frei. In blutender Atmosphäre fuhr die Cutlass pinwhee in die lange, dunkle Nacht.
Er riss seinen Blick weg, sah die beiden hellen Punkte ihrer Triebe, als die Raketen von dem verbliebenen Entermesser auf ihn losfuhren. Er wartete, als die Warnungen immer schärfer wurden.
Im letzten Moment rutschte er wieder aus und ließ Gegenmaßnahmen fallen, um seinen ursprünglichen Vektor fortzusetzen. Beide Raketen bissen in falsche Unterschriften, winzige elektronische Köpfe wurden getäuscht. Kugeln aus expandierendem Plasma beleuchteten das Schwarz hinter Gates. Er passte den Kurs ein drittes Mal an, drückte das Gaspedal bis zum Anschlag.
Er hatte die Spur seiner eigenen Raketen verloren, musste sich die Handlung ansehen. Dieser Pilot war besser.
Muss einen der Explosionen völlig vermieden haben. Seine Schilde kamen gerade wieder in Betrieb. Der Entermesser schlug ihn und manövrierte, um von der Seite zu Gates zu kommen, Hammer zum Amboss der Caterpillar.
Tore reihen sich auf der Caterpillar auf und vertrauen auf die bessere Geschwindigkeit des 325, um ihn rein und raus zu bringen, bevor das Entermesser ihn mit genügend Kanonenfeuer versorgen konnte, um seine Schilde zu überlasten.
Als er in Reichweite kam, schnappte er die 325 in eine Rolle und hielt beide Schießbolzen nach unten. Kohärente Strahlen schnappten über das Vakuum, selbst als ein Strom von Metallsplittern mit einer Geschwindigkeit folgte, die auf einer Skala langsamer war, die nur Maschinen schätzen konnten.
Der Turm auf der Caterpillar kam zum Einsatz.
Gates schlug das Joch nach vorne und dann hart nach links und stieß gleichzeitig mit dem rechten Fuß nach unten, dann schlug er sofort das Joch nach rechts. Die Triebwerke feuerten ab, rissen die 325 nach unten und links, bevor sie in einem Rechtsdrall rollten, der sich unterhalb der Raupe in ihrer aktuellen Ausrichtung ausbreitete, und verhinderten, dass der Turm-Schütze auf ihn zielte. Die Turmgeschützfeuerwaffen erforderten eine enge Koordination zwischen Pilot und Schütze - etwas, was die meisten Piratenschurken nicht praktizierten.
Er brachte seine eigene Nase hoch und feuerte in den Bauch der Katze, traf auf eine abplatzende Rüstung und setzte überhitzten Metalldampf frei, um gegen das Schwarz zu leuchten. Etwas brach im Inneren der Katze los, als sich die Tore glätteten, eine halbe Feuerkuppel brach aus wie eine glühende Blase aus einem Richtungsstrahler.
Weitere Warnungen schrieen, diesmal von seinen Schilden. Der Entermesser war eingetroffen, als Gates langsamer wurde und mehrere Treffer mit seiner Laserkanone bewältigte.
Guter Pilot. Besser bei weitem als sein Flügelmann.
Er drückte den Komm-Knopf und strahlte, während er manövrierte, um den Entermesser zu schütteln: "Ich werde das Kopfgeld auf einen von euch bekommen. Ich brauche nicht mehr. Wenn du weglaufen willst, werde ich dich nicht jagen."
Mehrere weitere Kanonenschüsse schlugen gegen seine Schilde.
Gates fügte noch mehr Geschwindigkeit hinzu, drehte die 325 in eine sich erweiternde Spirale und drückte das Schiff und seine Kompensatoren bis zum Maximum.
Der Entermesser folgte, der minderwertige Schub kostete ihre Position mit jeder Sekunde, trotz der besseren Drehfähigkeit des Entermessers.
Ausgehend von der Spitze einer Kurve kehrte Gates den Kurs um. Die Welt war grau, die G-Kräfte zermalmten trotz Kompensatoren. Gates atmete hart und hielt das Bewusstsein mit einem Willensakt fest, stellte sich auf dem Entermesser auf und drückte beide Feuerstäbe erneut.
Ihre Schilde knickten unter der hohen Zyklenzahl der Laserkanone des 325, dann brach der Rumpf unter dem Schlagen der Massenfahrer-Munition auf.
Das Geschütz des Entermesser-Piloten war verdammt gut: eine Reihe von aufeinanderfolgenden Schüssen, die es schafften, die Schilde des 325 zu senken, bevor sie die leere Raketengondel auf der Steuerbordseite zerstörten und die Rüstung entlang der gesamten Strecke des Flügels knackten.
"Nennen Sie es also ruhig", kam die Übertragung des Piraten, als das Entermesser an Gates' schnell abbremsendem Schiff vorbei schoss.
Gates drehten sich um, aber sie kontrollierten das Feuer, als der Pirat weiterhin Geschwindigkeit hinzufügte und rannte; ein Deal war schließlich ein Deal.
Die Caterpillar ermöglichte bereits die bestmögliche Geschwindigkeit für die Tiefen des Systems.
Er wandte sich an den Spediteur. Die Kommunikation wurde wieder aktiv: "Das ist Captain Charles Zhou von Saint Claire's Kiss. Bitte identifizieren Sie sich."
" Arminius Gates, Kopfgeldjäger. Die Piraten werden nicht zurückkommen."
"Oh, danke dem Buddha."
Was folgte, war viel zu viel weinerliches Dankeschön, das Gates zunehmend irritierend fand. Es bedurfte einiger Anstrengungen, aber der Kapitän brachte schließlich ihre Primärsysteme zum Laufen. Einige Stunden später eskortierte Gates das Handelsschiff Saint Claire's Kiss zum Sprungplatz für Nemo und versuchte höflich, Captain Zhou's zweifelhafte Hilfsangebote abzulehnen, die er oder seine Crew ihrem Retter geben könnten.
. ...wird fortgesetzt
Ein Paar offensichtlicher Piraten näherten sich einem Händler direkt am Rande der Sensorabdeckung von Gates. Er hatte die Entwicklung eine Weile verfolgt, beobachtet, wie der Kapitän des Langstreckentransporteurs, der versuchte, den beiden dahinter liegenden Schiffen zu entkommen, über den Piraten stolperte und auf seinem Weg lag. Der dritte Pirat wurde mit seinen Sensoren aktiv und schloss den Sack.
Der Handelsschiffskapitän verschlimmerte seinen Fehler und verlangsamte, wann immer er versuchen sollte, entlang seiner Flugbahn an dem einzelnen Schiff vorbeizuschießen: Eine strenge Jagd war immer noch am längsten.... Aber nein, er hatte verlangsamt, die Kursänderung diente nur dazu, ihn noch viel länger im Waffenumschlag der Piraten zu halten.
Raketen, die zwischen dem Piraten und dem Steinbruch gefunden wurden. EMP hämmerte seine Sensoren, als die Eröffnungssalve der Piraten die schwachen Schilde des Händlers niederstreckte. Trotz der Unschärfe des Sensorbildes wusste Gates, was als nächstes kam: ein Hochgeschwindigkeitspass mit Kanonen, der darauf abzielte, Antriebe und Schildgeneratoren zu beschädigen und die vom Besitzer angebrachten Waffen zu zerstören.
Gates fühlte, wie sich seine Oberlippe kräuselte, widersprüchlich. Kopfgeldjäger nahmen es selten mit Piraten auf der Jagd auf und zogen es vor, einzelne Kopfgelder einzulösen, während der Pirat auf dem Planeten lag, hoffentlich betrunken, und sicherlich weit weg von schiffszerstörerischen Waffen, die den Jäger aus dem Geschäft bringen könnten. Es war eine praktische Taktik, die, wenn sie ignoriert würde, Fragen über seine Tarnung aufwerfen würde.
Wenn alle an ihrem jetzigen Kurs und ihrer Geschwindigkeit festhielten, würden ihre Flugbahnen nahe genug sein, um sie in knapp drei Minuten in seine Raketenhülle zu bringen.
Jemand überlebt diese Dinge immer, und sie reden immer. Ich kann nicht zulassen, dass sie darüber reden, wie ich reingeplatzt bin, ohne eine Garantie für Geld für meine Bemühungen zu haben.
Das Notlichtfeuer des Händlers leuchtete auf.
Dumm. Ich hätte einfach nachgeben und die Ladung verlieren sollen. Es gibt eine Versicherung für so etwas. Jetzt werden die Piraten es buchstäblich aus ihren Verstecken nehmen.
Die Tags auf dem Getriebe identifizierten das Schiff als T-XIII, einen der billigsten Frachtschiffe, der die Raumfahrtlinien bedient. Sie waren kaum in der Lage, Sprungbremsen zu überwinden, hatten große Laderäume und minimale Anforderungen an die Besatzung, was sie zum bevorzugten Stück Scheiße für Händler macht, die auf der Stelle treten.
Zwei Minuten bevor er mit seinen Raketen in Angriffsreichweite kam, piepste die taktische Handlung. Der Schlepper hatte aufgehört zu manövrieren.
Verdammt noch mal. Gates erhöhte das Gaspedal um zwanzig Prozent und erhöhte damit seine Schließrate. Vielleicht erschrecken die Piraten, sie sehen mich kommen.
Er führte die Antriebssignaturen aller Schiffe mit der Datenbank der 325er Schiffsprofile durch. Derjenige, der auf der Lauer lag, war ein Entermesser, ebenso wie einer der beiden Verfolger. Der andere Verfolger war eine Caterpillar, ein modifizierter Frachtschlepper; groß, langsam und sicherlich nicht in der Lage, Manöverkämpfe zu gewinnen.
Gates überprüfte die taktische Handlung, führte eine Raketenlösung auf dem sich schließenden Entermesser durch und überprüfte die Positionen der anderen Schiffe. Die Caterpillar befand sich fast auf dem Schlepper und benutzte wahrscheinlich ihre Traktoren, um das Frachtschiff einzuziehen.
Die allgemeine Kommunikation erwachte zum Leben: "Mitreisender, du musst dich woanders umsehen."
Ich habe eine höfliche Rasse von Piraten gefunden. Höflich und kurzsichtig. Ich kann nicht sehen, was er vor sich hat.
Gates lächelte, als die Reichweite nach unten tippte. Als er das andere Schiff tief genug in seinem Umschlag hatte, startete er.
Es dauerte einen messbaren Moment, bis die Sensoren ihre Ergebnisse an den Piraten weitergaben, während dessen die Kommunikationswarnung fortgesetzt wurde: "Ich warne dich nicht vor Panik, als der Pilot erkannte, dass er von Fuchs zu Henne gegangen war." Er reagierte nicht gut, stieß viel zu früh Gegenmaßnahmen aus und zog seinen Stock herum. Seine Unentschlossenheit tötete eine Menge Geschwindigkeit ohne Gewinn. Er endete langsamer, als er begonnen hatte, und ging von seiner Unterstützung weg und fast parallel zu Gates.
Gates drückte das Gaspedal und ging direkt auf das Entermesser zu. Der Zielrechner kicherte, als er eine Ziellösung für die anderen Schiffe ausarbeitete. Wenn der erste Entermesser überlebte, schickte das Raketenpaar seinen Weg, Gates würde ihn mit Waffen erledigen.
Die Tore passten den Kurs an, rutschten seitwärts, als die ECM-Suite mit Warnungen aufleuchtete.
Er ignorierte sie im Moment und spuckte sein eigenes Raketenpaar aus; beide raketen auf das andere Entermesser zu. Gates reihte den Massenfahrer auf dem ersten Entermesser auf und schnappte einen Ausbruch von Hypervelocity-Runden auf ihn.
Er hätte sich nicht darum kümmern müssen. Beide Raketen aus seiner ersten Salve überholten leicht den Entermesser und seinen unerfahrenen Piloten: Die erste Detonation senkte seine Schilde einen Bruchteil einer Sekunde, bevor die Nachfolge direkt neben dem Cockpit des Schiffes explodierte. Einige Herzschläge später riss die Hypervelocity-Runden vom Massenfahrer in die Flanke des Entermessers direkt vor ihrem Antriebsbereich und blies große Stücke Rüstung und innere Komponenten frei. In blutender Atmosphäre fuhr die Cutlass pinwhee in die lange, dunkle Nacht.
Er riss seinen Blick weg, sah die beiden hellen Punkte ihrer Triebe, als die Raketen von dem verbliebenen Entermesser auf ihn losfuhren. Er wartete, als die Warnungen immer schärfer wurden.
Im letzten Moment rutschte er wieder aus und ließ Gegenmaßnahmen fallen, um seinen ursprünglichen Vektor fortzusetzen. Beide Raketen bissen in falsche Unterschriften, winzige elektronische Köpfe wurden getäuscht. Kugeln aus expandierendem Plasma beleuchteten das Schwarz hinter Gates. Er passte den Kurs ein drittes Mal an, drückte das Gaspedal bis zum Anschlag.
Er hatte die Spur seiner eigenen Raketen verloren, musste sich die Handlung ansehen. Dieser Pilot war besser.
Muss einen der Explosionen völlig vermieden haben. Seine Schilde kamen gerade wieder in Betrieb. Der Entermesser schlug ihn und manövrierte, um von der Seite zu Gates zu kommen, Hammer zum Amboss der Caterpillar.
Tore reihen sich auf der Caterpillar auf und vertrauen auf die bessere Geschwindigkeit des 325, um ihn rein und raus zu bringen, bevor das Entermesser ihn mit genügend Kanonenfeuer versorgen konnte, um seine Schilde zu überlasten.
Als er in Reichweite kam, schnappte er die 325 in eine Rolle und hielt beide Schießbolzen nach unten. Kohärente Strahlen schnappten über das Vakuum, selbst als ein Strom von Metallsplittern mit einer Geschwindigkeit folgte, die auf einer Skala langsamer war, die nur Maschinen schätzen konnten.
Der Turm auf der Caterpillar kam zum Einsatz.
Gates schlug das Joch nach vorne und dann hart nach links und stieß gleichzeitig mit dem rechten Fuß nach unten, dann schlug er sofort das Joch nach rechts. Die Triebwerke feuerten ab, rissen die 325 nach unten und links, bevor sie in einem Rechtsdrall rollten, der sich unterhalb der Raupe in ihrer aktuellen Ausrichtung ausbreitete, und verhinderten, dass der Turm-Schütze auf ihn zielte. Die Turmgeschützfeuerwaffen erforderten eine enge Koordination zwischen Pilot und Schütze - etwas, was die meisten Piratenschurken nicht praktizierten.
Er brachte seine eigene Nase hoch und feuerte in den Bauch der Katze, traf auf eine abplatzende Rüstung und setzte überhitzten Metalldampf frei, um gegen das Schwarz zu leuchten. Etwas brach im Inneren der Katze los, als sich die Tore glätteten, eine halbe Feuerkuppel brach aus wie eine glühende Blase aus einem Richtungsstrahler.
Weitere Warnungen schrieen, diesmal von seinen Schilden. Der Entermesser war eingetroffen, als Gates langsamer wurde und mehrere Treffer mit seiner Laserkanone bewältigte.
Guter Pilot. Besser bei weitem als sein Flügelmann.
Er drückte den Komm-Knopf und strahlte, während er manövrierte, um den Entermesser zu schütteln: "Ich werde das Kopfgeld auf einen von euch bekommen. Ich brauche nicht mehr. Wenn du weglaufen willst, werde ich dich nicht jagen."
Mehrere weitere Kanonenschüsse schlugen gegen seine Schilde.
Gates fügte noch mehr Geschwindigkeit hinzu, drehte die 325 in eine sich erweiternde Spirale und drückte das Schiff und seine Kompensatoren bis zum Maximum.
Der Entermesser folgte, der minderwertige Schub kostete ihre Position mit jeder Sekunde, trotz der besseren Drehfähigkeit des Entermessers.
Ausgehend von der Spitze einer Kurve kehrte Gates den Kurs um. Die Welt war grau, die G-Kräfte zermalmten trotz Kompensatoren. Gates atmete hart und hielt das Bewusstsein mit einem Willensakt fest, stellte sich auf dem Entermesser auf und drückte beide Feuerstäbe erneut.
Ihre Schilde knickten unter der hohen Zyklenzahl der Laserkanone des 325, dann brach der Rumpf unter dem Schlagen der Massenfahrer-Munition auf.
Das Geschütz des Entermesser-Piloten war verdammt gut: eine Reihe von aufeinanderfolgenden Schüssen, die es schafften, die Schilde des 325 zu senken, bevor sie die leere Raketengondel auf der Steuerbordseite zerstörten und die Rüstung entlang der gesamten Strecke des Flügels knackten.
"Nennen Sie es also ruhig", kam die Übertragung des Piraten, als das Entermesser an Gates' schnell abbremsendem Schiff vorbei schoss.
Gates drehten sich um, aber sie kontrollierten das Feuer, als der Pirat weiterhin Geschwindigkeit hinzufügte und rannte; ein Deal war schließlich ein Deal.
Die Caterpillar ermöglichte bereits die bestmögliche Geschwindigkeit für die Tiefen des Systems.
Er wandte sich an den Spediteur. Die Kommunikation wurde wieder aktiv: "Das ist Captain Charles Zhou von Saint Claire's Kiss. Bitte identifizieren Sie sich."
" Arminius Gates, Kopfgeldjäger. Die Piraten werden nicht zurückkommen."
"Oh, danke dem Buddha."
Was folgte, war viel zu viel weinerliches Dankeschön, das Gates zunehmend irritierend fand. Es bedurfte einiger Anstrengungen, aber der Kapitän brachte schließlich ihre Primärsysteme zum Laufen. Einige Stunden später eskortierte Gates das Handelsschiff Saint Claire's Kiss zum Sprungplatz für Nemo und versuchte höflich, Captain Zhou's zweifelhafte Hilfsangebote abzulehnen, die er oder seine Crew ihrem Retter geben könnten.
. ...wird fortgesetzt
Chinese
Well now, isn’t this the perfect welcome to Taranis, garden spot of Human-controlled space?
A pair of obvious pirates were closing on a trader just at the edge of Gates’ sensor coverage. He’d been tracking developments for a while, watching as the captain of the long-hauler, trying to escape the two vessels behind it, blundered across the pirate lying doggo along his path. The third pirate went active with his sensors, closing the sack.
The trade-ship captain compounded his error, slowing when he should try and shoot past the lone ship along his trajectory: a stern chase was still longest … But no, he’d slowed, the course alteration only serving to keep him in the weapons envelope of the pirates that much longer.
Missiles traced between the pirate and quarry. EMP hashed his sensors as the opening salvo of the pirates downed the trader’s weak shields. Despite the blurring of the sensor image, Gates knew what was next: a high-speed pass with guns, aimed at damaging drives and shield generators, and destroying whatever weapons the owner had mounted.
Gates felt his upper lip curling, conflicted. Bounty hunters rarely took on pirates on the prowl, preferring to take down individual bounties while the pirate was planetside, hopefully drunk, and certainly well away from ship-destroying weapons that might put the hunter out of business. It was a practical tactic, and one that, if ignored, would raise questions about his cover.
If everyone kept to their present course and speed, their trajectories would close enough to get them inside his missile envelope in just under three minutes.
Someone always survives these things, and they always talk. Can’t have ‘em talking about how I blasted in for no guarantee of cash for my efforts.
The trader’s emergency beacon lit up.
Stupid. Should have just given in and lost the cargo. There’s insurance for that kind of thing. Now the pirates’ll take it out of their hides, literally.
The tags on the transmission identified the vessel as a T-XIII, one of the cheapest cargo-haulers plying the space lanes. Capable, barely, of transiting jump points, they had large holds and minimal crew requirements, making them the piece of crap of choice for down-at-the-heels traders.
Two minutes before entering engagement range on his missiles, the tactical plot beeped. The hauler had stopped maneuvering.
Damn it. Gates increased throttle by twenty percent, increasing his rate of closure. Maybe the pirates will spook, they see me coming.
He ran the drive signatures of all the vessels against the 325’s database of ship profiles. The one that had been lying in wait was a Cutlass, as was one of the pair of chasers. The other chaser was a Caterpillar, a modified cargo hauler; big, slow and certainly not going to win any battles of maneuver.
Gates checked the tactical plot, running a missile solution on the closing Cutlass and checking the positions of the other vessels. The Caterpillar was almost on top of the hauler, probably using its tractors to haul the cargo vessel in.
The general comms came to life: “Fellow traveller, you need to make for elsewhere.”
Polite breed of pirate I’ve found. Polite and nearsighted. Can’t see what he’s facing.
Gates smiled as the range ticked down. Once he had the other ship deep enough into his envelope, he launched.
It took a measurable moment for the sensors to report their findings to the pirate, during which the comm warning continued: “I won’t warn you aga-“ the speaker cut off with a squeal of panic as the pilot realized he’d gone from fox to hen. He didn’t react well, punching out countermeasures far too early and jerking his stick around. His indecision killed a lot of speed for no gain. He ended slower than he’d begun, and moving away from his support and almost parallel to Gates.
Gates punched the throttle and went straight in at the Cutlass. The targeting computer chuckled as it worked out a targeting solution on the other vessels. If the first Cutlass survived the pair of missiles sent its way, Gates would end him with guns.
Gates adjusted course, slid sideways as the ECM suite lit up with warnings.
He ignored them for the moment, spitting his own pair of missiles; both rocketing toward the other Cutlass. Gates lined up the mass driver on the first Cutlass and snapped a burst of hypervelocity rounds at him.
He needn’t have bothered. Both missiles from his first salvo easily overtook the Cutlass and its inexperienced pilot: the first detonation downed its shields a split second before the follow-up exploded right beside the vessel’s cockpit. Several heartbeats later the hypervelocity rounds from the mass driver ripped into the flank of the Cutlass just forward of her drive section, blowing great chunks of armor and internal components free. Bleeding atmo, the Cutlass pinwheeled into the long, dark night.
He tore his gaze away, saw the pair of bright pinpoints of their drives as the missiles raced at him from the remaining Cutlass. He waited as the warnings came more and more shrilly.
At the last instant he sideslipped again, dumping countermeasures to continue along his original vector. Both missiles bit into false signatures, tiny electronic minds deceived. Spheres of expanding plasma lit the black behind Gates. He adjusted course a third time, pushed the throttle to the stops.
He’d lost track of his own missiles, had to glance at the plot. This pilot was better.
Must have avoided one of the blasts entirely. His shields were just coming back on line. The Cutlass was punching it, maneuvering to come at Gates from the side, hammer to the Caterpillar’s anvil.
Gates lined up on the Caterpillar, trusting to the 325’s better speed to get him in and out before the Cutlass could peg him with sufficient cannon fire to overload his shields.
Entering range, he snapped the 325 into a roll and held both firing studs down. Coherent beams snapped across the vacuum even as a stream of metal splinters followed at a velocity that was slower on a scale that only machines could appreciate.
The turret on the Caterpillar got into action.
Gates slammed the yoke forward and then hard left, stamping his right foot down at the same time, then immediately hammered the yoke to the right. Thrusters fired, yanking the 325 down and left before rolling in a righthand spin that leveled out ‘below’ the Caterpillar in its current orientation, preventing the turret gunner from targeting him. Turret gunnery required close coordination between pilot and gunner — something most pirate scum didn’t practice.
He brought his own nose up and fired into the belly of the Cat, hits spalling armor and releasing superheated metal vapor to glow against the black. Something broke loose inside the Cat as Gates straightened out, a half-dome of fire erupting like a glowing blister from a directional thruster.
More warnings blatted, this time from his shields. The Cutlass had come in when Gates slowed, managing several hits with its laser cannon.
Good pilot. Better, by far, than his wingman.
He pushed the comm button, broadcasting even as he maneuvered to shake the Cutlass: “Gonna have the bounty on one of you. Don’t need more. Should you want to run, I won’t be chasing you.”
Several more cannon shots tapped against his shields.
Still adding velocity, Gates cranked the 325 into a widening spiral, pushing the ship and its compensators to the maximum.
The Cutlass followed, inferior thrust costing her position with each passing second, despite the Cutlass’ better turning capability.
Starting at the apex of a turn, Gates reversed course. The world grayed, G-forces crushing despite compensators. Breathing hard and holding onto consciousness with an act of will, Gates lined up on the Cutlass and pressed both firing studs again.
Her shields buckled under the high cyclic rate of the 325’s laser cannon, then the hull cracked open under the flail of the mass driver’s munitions.
The Cutlass pilot’s gunnery was damn good: a series of successive shots managing to down the 325’s shields before wrecking the empty starboard missile pod and cracking armor all along that stretch of wing.
“Call it even, then,” the pirate’s transmission came as the Cutlass shot past Gates’ rapidly decelerating ship.
Gates turned but checked fire as the pirate continued to add velocity and run for it; a deal was a deal, after all.
The Caterpillar was already making best possible speed for the depths of the system.
He turned for the hauler. The comm went active again: “This is Captain Charles Zhou of Saint Claire’s Kiss. Please identify.”
“Arminius Gates, bounty hunter. The pirates won’t be back.”
“Oh, thank the Buddha.”
What followed was far too many tearful thank-yous that Gates found increasingly irritating. It took some doing, but the captain eventually got their primary systems up and running. Some hours later Gates was escorting the trade ship Saint Claire’s Kiss to the jump point for Nemo, trying to politely turn down Captain Zhou’s dubious offers of assistance he or his crew might render their savior.
. . .to be continued
A pair of obvious pirates were closing on a trader just at the edge of Gates’ sensor coverage. He’d been tracking developments for a while, watching as the captain of the long-hauler, trying to escape the two vessels behind it, blundered across the pirate lying doggo along his path. The third pirate went active with his sensors, closing the sack.
The trade-ship captain compounded his error, slowing when he should try and shoot past the lone ship along his trajectory: a stern chase was still longest … But no, he’d slowed, the course alteration only serving to keep him in the weapons envelope of the pirates that much longer.
Missiles traced between the pirate and quarry. EMP hashed his sensors as the opening salvo of the pirates downed the trader’s weak shields. Despite the blurring of the sensor image, Gates knew what was next: a high-speed pass with guns, aimed at damaging drives and shield generators, and destroying whatever weapons the owner had mounted.
Gates felt his upper lip curling, conflicted. Bounty hunters rarely took on pirates on the prowl, preferring to take down individual bounties while the pirate was planetside, hopefully drunk, and certainly well away from ship-destroying weapons that might put the hunter out of business. It was a practical tactic, and one that, if ignored, would raise questions about his cover.
If everyone kept to their present course and speed, their trajectories would close enough to get them inside his missile envelope in just under three minutes.
Someone always survives these things, and they always talk. Can’t have ‘em talking about how I blasted in for no guarantee of cash for my efforts.
The trader’s emergency beacon lit up.
Stupid. Should have just given in and lost the cargo. There’s insurance for that kind of thing. Now the pirates’ll take it out of their hides, literally.
The tags on the transmission identified the vessel as a T-XIII, one of the cheapest cargo-haulers plying the space lanes. Capable, barely, of transiting jump points, they had large holds and minimal crew requirements, making them the piece of crap of choice for down-at-the-heels traders.
Two minutes before entering engagement range on his missiles, the tactical plot beeped. The hauler had stopped maneuvering.
Damn it. Gates increased throttle by twenty percent, increasing his rate of closure. Maybe the pirates will spook, they see me coming.
He ran the drive signatures of all the vessels against the 325’s database of ship profiles. The one that had been lying in wait was a Cutlass, as was one of the pair of chasers. The other chaser was a Caterpillar, a modified cargo hauler; big, slow and certainly not going to win any battles of maneuver.
Gates checked the tactical plot, running a missile solution on the closing Cutlass and checking the positions of the other vessels. The Caterpillar was almost on top of the hauler, probably using its tractors to haul the cargo vessel in.
The general comms came to life: “Fellow traveller, you need to make for elsewhere.”
Polite breed of pirate I’ve found. Polite and nearsighted. Can’t see what he’s facing.
Gates smiled as the range ticked down. Once he had the other ship deep enough into his envelope, he launched.
It took a measurable moment for the sensors to report their findings to the pirate, during which the comm warning continued: “I won’t warn you aga-“ the speaker cut off with a squeal of panic as the pilot realized he’d gone from fox to hen. He didn’t react well, punching out countermeasures far too early and jerking his stick around. His indecision killed a lot of speed for no gain. He ended slower than he’d begun, and moving away from his support and almost parallel to Gates.
Gates punched the throttle and went straight in at the Cutlass. The targeting computer chuckled as it worked out a targeting solution on the other vessels. If the first Cutlass survived the pair of missiles sent its way, Gates would end him with guns.
Gates adjusted course, slid sideways as the ECM suite lit up with warnings.
He ignored them for the moment, spitting his own pair of missiles; both rocketing toward the other Cutlass. Gates lined up the mass driver on the first Cutlass and snapped a burst of hypervelocity rounds at him.
He needn’t have bothered. Both missiles from his first salvo easily overtook the Cutlass and its inexperienced pilot: the first detonation downed its shields a split second before the follow-up exploded right beside the vessel’s cockpit. Several heartbeats later the hypervelocity rounds from the mass driver ripped into the flank of the Cutlass just forward of her drive section, blowing great chunks of armor and internal components free. Bleeding atmo, the Cutlass pinwheeled into the long, dark night.
He tore his gaze away, saw the pair of bright pinpoints of their drives as the missiles raced at him from the remaining Cutlass. He waited as the warnings came more and more shrilly.
At the last instant he sideslipped again, dumping countermeasures to continue along his original vector. Both missiles bit into false signatures, tiny electronic minds deceived. Spheres of expanding plasma lit the black behind Gates. He adjusted course a third time, pushed the throttle to the stops.
He’d lost track of his own missiles, had to glance at the plot. This pilot was better.
Must have avoided one of the blasts entirely. His shields were just coming back on line. The Cutlass was punching it, maneuvering to come at Gates from the side, hammer to the Caterpillar’s anvil.
Gates lined up on the Caterpillar, trusting to the 325’s better speed to get him in and out before the Cutlass could peg him with sufficient cannon fire to overload his shields.
Entering range, he snapped the 325 into a roll and held both firing studs down. Coherent beams snapped across the vacuum even as a stream of metal splinters followed at a velocity that was slower on a scale that only machines could appreciate.
The turret on the Caterpillar got into action.
Gates slammed the yoke forward and then hard left, stamping his right foot down at the same time, then immediately hammered the yoke to the right. Thrusters fired, yanking the 325 down and left before rolling in a righthand spin that leveled out ‘below’ the Caterpillar in its current orientation, preventing the turret gunner from targeting him. Turret gunnery required close coordination between pilot and gunner — something most pirate scum didn’t practice.
He brought his own nose up and fired into the belly of the Cat, hits spalling armor and releasing superheated metal vapor to glow against the black. Something broke loose inside the Cat as Gates straightened out, a half-dome of fire erupting like a glowing blister from a directional thruster.
More warnings blatted, this time from his shields. The Cutlass had come in when Gates slowed, managing several hits with its laser cannon.
Good pilot. Better, by far, than his wingman.
He pushed the comm button, broadcasting even as he maneuvered to shake the Cutlass: “Gonna have the bounty on one of you. Don’t need more. Should you want to run, I won’t be chasing you.”
Several more cannon shots tapped against his shields.
Still adding velocity, Gates cranked the 325 into a widening spiral, pushing the ship and its compensators to the maximum.
The Cutlass followed, inferior thrust costing her position with each passing second, despite the Cutlass’ better turning capability.
Starting at the apex of a turn, Gates reversed course. The world grayed, G-forces crushing despite compensators. Breathing hard and holding onto consciousness with an act of will, Gates lined up on the Cutlass and pressed both firing studs again.
Her shields buckled under the high cyclic rate of the 325’s laser cannon, then the hull cracked open under the flail of the mass driver’s munitions.
The Cutlass pilot’s gunnery was damn good: a series of successive shots managing to down the 325’s shields before wrecking the empty starboard missile pod and cracking armor all along that stretch of wing.
“Call it even, then,” the pirate’s transmission came as the Cutlass shot past Gates’ rapidly decelerating ship.
Gates turned but checked fire as the pirate continued to add velocity and run for it; a deal was a deal, after all.
The Caterpillar was already making best possible speed for the depths of the system.
He turned for the hauler. The comm went active again: “This is Captain Charles Zhou of Saint Claire’s Kiss. Please identify.”
“Arminius Gates, bounty hunter. The pirates won’t be back.”
“Oh, thank the Buddha.”
What followed was far too many tearful thank-yous that Gates found increasingly irritating. It took some doing, but the captain eventually got their primary systems up and running. Some hours later Gates was escorting the trade ship Saint Claire’s Kiss to the jump point for Nemo, trying to politely turn down Captain Zhou’s dubious offers of assistance he or his crew might render their savior.
. . .to be continued
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- CIG ID
- 13171
- Channel
- Undefined
- Category
- Undefined
- Series
- A Separate Law
- Comments
- 26
- Published
- 12 years ago (2013-08-01T00:00:00+00:00)