LOCKING ONTO THE SIGNAL
With Luma out of the way, HALAT returned her attention to the console. The faint but steady rhythmic beep reemerged, and HALAT quickly worked to isolate it.
“I’ve got it,” she said finally, her voice triumphant. “The signal is coming from a point roughly 0.5 lightyears ahead. It’s faint, but the pattern is consistent with a beacon.”
BOB’s voice chimed in. “Captain, I recommend we proceed with caution. This region of space is uncharted.”
Clorita leaned back in her chair, a faint smile on her lips. “Or it could be exactly what we’re looking for. Either way, it beats sitting around doing nothing.”
Zog hesitated, glancing at the blinking coordinates on the screen. “Alright,” he said finally. “BOB, set a course for the signal. But keep us on high alert. I don’t want any surprises.”
“As you wish, Captain,” BOB replied smoothly. “Engaging engines.”
As the Duj began to move toward the unknown signal, the tension on the bridge was palpable. The crew exchanged uncertain glances, each of them wondering what lay ahead. Whatever the source of the signal, one thing was clear: their journey into the unknown was far from over.
The signal grew stronger as the Duj approached its source. The rhythmic pulse that had seemed so faint now echoed steady and insistent through the ship’s systems.
BOB’s voice chimed in over the hum of the engines. “We’re nearing the signal origin, Captain. Estimated arrival in three minutes.”
Zog leaned forward in his chair, his circuits buzzing with apprehension. “Any visual yet?”
HALAT, seated at the sensor console, tapped a few keys. On the main screen, a holographic image flickered to life. It showed a small, derelict station drifting in the void. Its structure was battered and rust-streaked, and faint lights flickered along its exterior.
“That’s it?” Clorita asked, tilting her head. “Doesn’t look like much of a beacon to me.”
“It’s emitting the signal,” HALAT confirmed. “But... there’s something odd about the power signature. It’s inconsistent, almost as if it’s—”
“Decaying,” BOB interjected smoothly. “The station appears to be centuries old. Proceeding further could be... unwise.”
“Unwise is kind of our brand,” Clorita quipped, glancing at Zog. “What’s the call, Captain?”
Zog hesitated, his gaze fixed on the flickering station. “We came this far. Let’s check it out. BOB, take us closer, but keep the shields up.”
“As you command,” BOB replied, its tone almost too cheerful for the situation.
The Duj slowed to a crawl as it approached the station. A docking port appeared, its airlock wide open, almost inviting. The signal blared deafeningly in the ship’s systems, a beacon so loud it felt like a shout in the void.
“This feels too easy,” Zog muttered, his grip tightening on the armrest.
“Easy’s not a word I’d use,” Clorita said, her sharp eyes scanning the station’s surface. “Look at those scorch marks. Something ripped through this place.”
“No life signs detected,” HALAT reported, her tone clinical. “Trace heat signatures indicate activity within the last six hours. Probability of recent organic presence: 74%.”
Six hours. That was practically fresh. Zog’s circuits buzzed with unease. “BOB,” he said, his voice clipped, “don’t even start.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” BOB replied sweetly. “Though I could log this as ‘strolling into a deathtrap, chapter forty-seven.’”
“Not helpful,” Zog snapped. “Bring us in slow, but keep the engines hot. If this docking goes sideways, we’re out.”
The Duj inched closer, its navigation systems straining to sync with the station’s archaic protocols. The docking port loomed larger in the viewport, its warped edges and jagged scorch marks like teeth ready to swallow them whole. A low warning tone blared across the console.
“Uh, Captain?” Clorita said, her voice taut. “Docking clamps aren’t responding. Looks like their system’s locked us out.”
“HALAT, override,” Zog ordered sharply.
“Attempting,” HALAT replied. “The station’s software is corrupted. System integrity: 31%. Functional docking protocols: unavailable.”
Zog’s circuits buzzed with dread. His hands gripped the armrests tightly. “Clorita, counterbalance the aft thrusters. If HALAT can’t crack it, we’re severing the feed ourselves.”
“Already on it,” she replied. “Who designs a grav-lock system this bad?”
Suddenly, a violent jolt rocked the Duj, sending Zog forward in his seat. The deck plates trembled beneath his boots as a metallic screech reverberated through the hull.
“What now?” he barked.
“Grav-lock emitters active,” HALAT stated. “The station is attempting manual docking. Warning: calibration erratic. Hull damage imminent.”
“They’re pulling us in hard,” Clorita muttered, fingers darting over her controls. “Stabilizing the aft thrusters—HALAT, don’t take all day!”
The ship lurched again, tilting dangerously toward the docking port. Zog’s circuits flared with panic as he gripped the console. The deck groaned, the hull straining against the station’s grip. For a moment, it felt as though the ship would tear apart.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Override complete,” HALAT announced. “Grav-lock emitters disabled. Docking clamps engaging.”
The bridge fell still as the ship steadied. A final click signalled the docking clamps’ secure lock. The warning lights dimmed, leaving only the faint hum of the ship’s systems and the creak of cooling metal.
Zog exhaled, his shoulders slumping. “Too easy, huh?”
Clorita smirked, brushing back a stray lock of hair. “Next time, we skip the wide-open airlocks. No exceptions.”
“BOB,” Zog muttered, leaning back in his chair, his voice steady but edged with wariness, “log it: another damn close call. And keep the engines primed—we’re leaving the second this goes south.”
The Duj docked with a gentle thud, and the crew prepared to board the structure. Zog, Clorita, and HALAT suited up, their weapons secured at their sides. Luma perched on HALAT’s shoulder, her glowing eyes scanning their surroundings like twin green beacons.
The airlock hissed open, releasing a puff of stale, metallic air. The trio stepped cautiously into the station. It was eerily quiet, the faint hum of ancient machinery the only sound. The corridors were narrow and dimly lit, the walls streaked with rust and scorched black as though fire had raged through them.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Zog muttered, his hand hovering near his holstered weapon. His circuits buzzed with unease as his gaze swept the shadows.
“Stay sharp,” Clorita said, her tone clipped. Her grip on her shotgun tightened as her eyes darted around. “If someone’s here, they’re not rolling out the welcome mat.”
The silence dragged on, pressing down on them. Then, a faint, metallic, hollow clanking echoed through the station. It grew louder with each passing second, steady and deliberate as if something—or someone—was approaching.
“Multiple signatures detected,” HALAT announced, her voice calm. “Closing rapidly. Estimated contact in five seconds.”
The crew froze, weapons drawn. Zog’s fingers curled tightly around his blaster. The clanking stopped abruptly, and the corridor ahead exploded in flashing lights. A barrage of laser fire ripped toward them.
“Cover!” Zog roared, throwing himself behind a rusted support beam. A bolt sizzled past his head, close enough to scorch the wall beside him. Sparks flew, filling the air with the sharp tang of burnt metal.
From the shadows ahead, figures emerged, their silhouettes flickering in the dim light. They wore makeshift armour patched together from scavenged plating, jagged and mismatched. A few pieces were painted with crude symbols—skulls, flames, and what looked like claw marks. One pirate casually twirled a knife between his fingers while another laughed, a grating sound that echoed unnervingly.
“Well, well,” a gravelly voice drawled, cutting through the chaos. The pirate leader stepped forward, his armour scarred and worn. A gold tooth glinted as he grinned. “Trespassers, huh? That’s gonna cost you.”
The crew exchanged tense glances as the pirates closed in, their weapons trained on the trio. Zog’s circuits buzzed with panic, but he kept his expression calm. Clorita’s grip on her shotgun tightened, and a defiant grin tugged at her lips.
“You’ve got ten seconds to explain why you’re here,” the pirate leader growled, his weapon aimed squarely at Zog. “Or we start taking you apart piece by piece.”
To punctuate the threat, he fired a shot into the air. The sizzling bolt ricocheted off the walls, the sound sharp and deafening in the enclosed corridor. He sneered, baring his jagged teeth. “Five seconds left. Start talking.”
Zog didn’t flinch. He crossed his arms, tilting his head. “Look, if we’re going to explain, we need to decide who’s doing the talking. It’s a team decision.”
Clorita groaned. “Are you serious right now? I’ve got the best diplomacy skills here, obviously.”
HALAT raised an eyebrow. “You’d insult them before you even got to the point.”
“Oh, sure,” Clorita shot back. “Says the walking thesaurus. Sarcasm’s not a survival skill.”
“Better than panicking and stammering,” HALAT said, her eyes flicking to Zog.
“Excuse me,” Zog huffed, “but as captain, I should—”
“Three!” the pirate leader barked, his patience snapping.
Without hesitation, Zog sighed and muttered, “Alright, ladies. I think we’ve heard enough.”
He stepped aside. In perfect unison, HALAT and Clorita raised their weapons. The pirate leader’s eyes widened, but he didn’t have time to shout before the room erupted in chaos.
Blinding flashes of light filled the corridor as the crew fired. Sparks flew as bolts struck metal, sending pirates scrambling for cover. The hiss of HALAT’s precision shots cut through the din, and Clorita’s shotgun roared, throwing pirates off their feet. Within seconds, it was over.
The leader, disarmed and bleeding, groaned as HALAT and Clorita pinned him to the floor.
“That was unnecessary,” HALAT said coolly, inspecting the small scorch mark on her arm. “If you’d let me do the talking, we wouldn’t have needed this mess.”
Clorita snorted, adjusting her grip on the pirate leader’s arm. “Oh, please. Your idea of diplomacy is creeping them out until they beg for mercy.”
“It’s efficient,” HALAT replied matter-of-factly. “Unlike your method, which involves yelling until they give up out of sheer exhaustion.”
Zog rolled his eyes as he gathered the fallen pirates’ weapons into a neat pile. “You two realize the fight’s over, right? Maybe save the bickering for when we’re not sitting on a pirate.”
Clorita jabbed a thumb at HALAT. “Tell her that. She’s the one who thought storming in with laser fire was the best option.”
HALAT’s glowing eyes flickered with amusement. “You were literally the first to shoot. Don’t deny it.”
The pirate leader groaned from beneath them, his forked tongue flicking angrily. “Could you at least argue somewhere else? My ribs are broken…”
“Quiet,” Clorita snapped, tightening her grip. She turned to Zog. “Alright, Captain, what’s the plan? Let him go, or make him talk?”
Zog picked up a sleek blaster, turning it over in his hands. “Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you two ‘diplomats’ figure it out? I’m busy securing our spoils.”
The pirate leader snarled as HALAT and Clorita hauled him onto the Duj. His boots scraped against the polished floor as they dragged him into the gym, which had been hastily transformed into an interrogation chamber. A single spotlight illuminated the bench where the pirate sat tied up, his arms and legs restrained.
“This seems... excessive,” Clorita remarked, leaning against the wall as Zog double-knotted the ropes.
“We need answers,” Zog said, wiping his hands on his trousers. “And we need them fast.”
HALAT stood beside him, her glowing eyes narrowing. “BOB, identify this specimen.”
The gym’s speakers crackled. “Analyzing... One moment, please.” A holographic projection flickered to life above the bench, displaying the pirate’s profile. “Species: Tailless lizard variant. Likely from an undocumented meteorite colony. Known for scavenging and preying on travellers. Oh—and remarkably ticklish.”
Clorita raised an eyebrow. “Ticklish?”
“Particularly along their abdominal ridges,” BOB added, almost gleefully.
The pirate snarled, his tongue flicking angrily. “You’ll get nothing from me, tin cans.”
HALAT stepped forward, her expression cold as steel. “We’ll see about that.” A thin blade extended from her wrist, the tip gleaming in the spotlight.