Suspended motionless in the void between two spiraling galaxies, a metallic light shimmered across the hull of a vast interstellar ship, racing from bow to stern in chaotic flashes of bright and dark green. The ship appeared almost alive as the light cascaded along its exterior, pulsating like the muscles of some massive creature contracting against the cold abyss of space. Amid the symphony of greens, a single white light gleamed—a solitary beacon amid the darkness. Was it the main bridge of the C.S.S. Reality, or the unblinking eye of a monstrous predator? Both descriptions held true.
From that vantage point, Captain Bainbridge had once unleashed the overwhelming power of the C.S.S. Reality, obliterating anything that dared stand in the way of the Confederation. Through that window, he had witnessed fleets crushed, military installations annihilated, and entire planets pleading for mercy, only to be incinerated by the ship’s awesome might. He had bent the ship to his will, commanding it like a god. But now, Captain Bainbridge was no longer on the bridge, ruling over his domain. He was a prisoner in the belly of the very beast he had once commanded.
“The captain’s all locked up on Deck 23,” Mattwo reported, sliding into the engine room in a low, hasty dive, his body skidding several meters across the floor before coming to a stop behind a diagnostic console. His forward momentum carried him just out of sight of the enemy, avoiding the crackling blasts of laser fire that tore through the air.
At only 5 feet 4 inches, Mattwo was a small man, and his signature afro added a few extra inches to his height. He wasn’t the most imposing figure, but his diminutive size made it easier to hide behind the small console. He grinned, glancing over at Sandra, who had taken cover behind an inactive coolant junction.
“Well, that’s one problem taken care of,” Sandra growled, peeking out from behind her cover and firing a series of quick, precise shots toward the Confederate soldiers holding the engine room’s upper deck entrance. “Any chance you could take care of this one, too?”
The situation was far from ideal. The two of them had executed a near-flawless ruse, convincing the crew that a deadly spore outbreak required them to sterilize the ship. They had released a gaseous agent into the crew quarters, rendering most of the personnel unconscious, but Bainbridge and his officers had holed up on the bridge in adaptive suits, leaving a small contingent of soldiers on alert.
Now, with Bainbridge subdued and confined, only a handful of Confederation soldiers remained in control of half the engine room. Two soldiers were positioned at the entrance above, while the other four had taken cover behind the ship’s central cooling system. This system wasn’t responsible for the ship’s propulsion—that was managed by its experimental dark matter drive—but it cooled the ship’s auxiliary systems: weapons arrays, shield generators, and critical energy distribution nodes that kept the ship operational during combat. Disabling it wouldn’t cripple the Reality, but it would make operation of her more difficult.
“What’s that then, eh?” Mattwo asked, his tone still lighthearted as he rummaged around for something useful. His hand settled on a bent piece of piping lying amid the scattered debris on the floor. “I hope it’s something simple,” he added, inspecting the makeshift weapon.
“Maybe it has something to do with these goddamn Confederation grunts trying to kill us!” Sandra snapped, firing another burst of laser fire that scorched the deck near one of the soldiers. The nearest Confederate soldier—a large man clad in the standard white and gray composite body armor of the Confederation's ground forces—took a shot square in the chest. The burn mark sizzled as the body collapsed, his rifle slipping from his lifeless hands. Sandra ducked back just in time as the other soldiers opened fire in retaliation, three bursts of red light cutting through the spot she had been occupying moments ago.
Sandra’s combat instincts kicked in as she quickly surveyed the engine room. The central cooling pipes wound through the compartment, glowing faintly with the excess heat they siphoned from the ship’s shield generators. The piping network stretched from floor to ceiling, offering some cover, but also an opportunity.
"We need to get to that console," Sandra barked, nodding toward the main engine control unit where three Confederate soldiers were crouched, unloading rounds of plasma fire in their direction. "If we can override the cooling system, we can force an emergency lockdown. That’ll at least isolate the upper deck and buy us time to take them out.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Mattwo replied, holding up the bent pipe with a shrug. “But, uh... you might be on your own for this one. I’ve got a piece of scrap metal, and they’ve got, well, guns.”
Just as he tossed the pipe aside with a nonchalant flick, fate intervened. The bent pipe spun through the air, catching the Confederate soldier attempting to flank them right in the side of the head. The soldier—a lean, mean-looking man with an insignia on his chest marking him as a squad leader—let out a surprised yelp as he lost his balance. He fell from the upper gangway, tumbling down into the lower deck with a bone-crunching thud, his body landing in a twisted heap.
Sandra, hearing the scream, shot a glance at Mattwo. “What?!”
“Nothing!” Mattwo called back, barely containing his laughter as he crawled toward the downed soldier. He grabbed the fallen man’s blaster rifle and took a quick look over the edge, wincing at the sight of the crumpled body below. The soldier twitched once, groaning in pain.
Mattwo sighed. “Should’ve stayed on the bridge, buddy.” He raised the rifle and fired twice, putting the man out of his misery. With his new weapon in hand, he turned to Sandra. "Okay, now we’re talking.”
Sandra grinned. "Cover me. I’ll take the pipes and try to flank them. Don’t let up on that fire.”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Mattwo gave a mock salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
As Sandra slinked off toward the cooling pipes, Mattwo opened fire, his shots scattering the remaining soldiers. He staggered his blasts, alternating between bursts and pauses, keeping the enemy on edge. The clattering of blaster fire echoed off the metal walls, each pulse of light illuminating the dark corners of the engine room.
The remaining Confederate soldiers, dressed in their sleek, form-fitting armor, were sweating under the pressure. Their helmets, designed with integrated HUDs and targeting systems, flashed red warnings as Mattwo’s shots pinged off their cover. One of them—the tallest of the group—poked his head out to return fire, but Sandra was already there.
She moved like a predator stalking its prey, the pipe offering the perfect vantage point as it looped behind the soldiers who were still pinned down behind the main control panel. With barely a sound, Sandra hurled herself through the air, launching the blade toward the nearest soldier. It struck home, embedding itself between his shoulder blades. Her pistol was in her hand before she landed, and she fired two quick shots, one hitting another soldier squarely in the chest, dropping him instantly. The third soldier, a towering figure almost seven feet tall, took a bullet in the arm, but instead of going for his rifle, he reacted with brute force.
As Sandra tried to land and regain her balance, the massive soldier spun and grabbed her in a crushing embrace, his huge arms coiling around her body like steel cables. The pressure was immediate and overwhelming, his muscles bulging as he lifted her off the ground. Sandra gasped, the air forced from her lungs as her ribs strained under the force. Her arms were pinned, her right hand still clutching her pistol but unable to maneuver it for a shot.
Her mind raced. The stench of the soldier’s aftershave—strong, synthetic, and nauseating—filled her nose as she struggled to free herself. She twisted and writhed, trying to get enough room to aim, but his grip was too strong. Desperation took hold as her vision began to blur at the edges. She threw her head back in a last-ditch attempt, feeling a sickening crunch as her skull connected with the soldier’s face. Blood spurted from his nose, but he didn’t release her.
Again, she smashed her head backward, over and over, each impact more violent than the last, but the soldier refused to let go, his grip tightening. Sandra’s lungs burned, her body growing weaker by the second. As darkness began to creep into her vision, she angled her pistol downward and fired blindly. The shot struck the soldier's foot, and he howled in pain, his grip loosening just enough for Sandra to pull her arm free. She twisted in his arms and fired again, this time planting two rounds into his side. His grip slackened entirely, and the giant crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.
Sandra collapsed to her knees, gasping for air, her body trembling from the exertion. As she regained her breath, two confederate soldiers suddenly loomed over her, rifles trained on her head.
“Well, shit,” Sandra muttered, her voice hoarse from the fight. “Aren’t you two the resourceful type.”
One of the soldiers stepped forward, his boot coming down hard on Sandra’s wrist, forcing her to drop her pistol. She winced, trying to move her arm, but the pressure was too much. “Hey, hey now,” she said with a forced grin, “we’re all friends here, aren’t we?” But the soldier wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He snatched her pistol and tossed it aside, then roughly hauled her to her feet. Within moments, her arms were bound behind her back with thick cable ties.
This is not how I saw this going, Sandra thought grimly, her eyes scanning the room. Where the hell is Mattwo? He wouldn’t have abandoned her, but there had been too much chaos to keep track of him. She was so close—mere feet from the main control panel of the C.S.S. Reality. If she could just override the system, they could take control of the ship and escape before the rest of the crew woke up.
One of the soldiers stepped to the control panel and tapped in several commands. “Bridge, this is Corporal Tenant,” he said into the communicator. “Bridge, do you copy?”
The other soldier, still holding Sandra, glanced at his comrade. “It’s no good,” he grunted. “They’ve disabled the communication system. Subversive scum.” His face twisted in anger as he turned back to Sandra, driving the butt of his rifle into her stomach.
The blow knocked the wind out of her, and Sandra doubled over, coughing blood onto the floor. The soldier didn’t stop there. He pressed the muzzle of his rifle against her temple, forcing her head back.
“Let’s just kill her now,” he growled, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Sandra glared up at him through the haze of pain, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “Go ahead, you fucking drone,” she spat. “I don’t know what’s worse—dying or listening to a couple of morons yap on.”
The soldier’s eyes narrowed, his face twisting with rage. He was about to pull the trigger when, suddenly, his head snapped back, a perfect hole burned through the center of his skull. Behind him, his comrade at the control panel crumpled, two smoking holes in his chest.
“How about just listening to me?” came Mattwo’s voice from behind. Sandra blinked, disoriented, as Mattwo jumped down from the cooling pipe, a smug grin on his face. He stepped over the bodies and knelt beside Sandra, quickly cutting through the cable ties with her Shalken knife.
“I’d listen to you any time, Mattwo,” Sandra said, gasping as she rubbed her wrists. “You wonderful bastard.”
“Glad to hear it,” Mattwo replied, offering her a hand. “But maybe we should get this ship out of here before the rest of the crew wakes up.”
Sandra was already moving toward the main control console. “Damn that Captain Bainbridge,” she muttered as she punched in a series of commands. “If it weren’t for him staying on the bridge, we’d have been gone by now.” The console blinked to life, and a soft hum filled the room as the ship’s engines began to power up. “He locked the engine controls to engineering. Gotta admire the bastard’s tenacity.”
The room glowed with a soft blue light as the ship’s systems came online. “Mattwo, input our destination,” Sandra ordered, gesturing toward a console on the far side of the room. “We need to meet up with Blair at Siron and sweep the ship. After that, I think it’s time we had a little chat with Captain Bainbridge.”
Mattwo tapped a few keys, nodding. “Course laid in, Captain.”
Sandra paused, surprised by the title. “Captain?” she repeated.
“Well, you’re in charge of an interstellar ship,” Mattwo said with a grin. “That makes you a captain, doesn’t it?”
Sandra allowed herself a small smile, the tension of the battle easing for the first time. Captain Sandra Harrington. She could get used to that.
With a final command, she engaged the engines, and the C.S.S. Reality blasted off into the void, its destination set for the Andromeda galaxy and a rendezvous with Blair.