A lurching SHKWELLLLLLLLPP! heralded the clan-ship’s emergence from their jump. Ratmen scurried about the bridge, checking readings and making sure no one was ill-affected by their brief stint in nonexistence. The first mate cut through the commotion and said, “Captain Kit’fe, a broadcast is coming from an orbital station.”
After a nod from the captain, the bridge’s screen flickered to life. When the signal cleared the crew let loose a collective gasp. It was a city unlike any Kit’fe had seen, each building looking to be made of organic material. The captain hesitated to call it flesh but it certainly wasn’t wood, metal, or stone.
But the battle, no, the massacre that was currently raging across the city was more worrying. Towering over the surrounding buildings was a robot overladen with missile pods, siege cannons, and a massive sword of all things. A sword that could cut through her clan-ship’s hull by the look of the energy overflowing from the blade.
From the titan poured a constant flow of firepower in all directions at the horde it waded through. They were disgusting things, horrifying creatures of chitin and flesh, and the screeching that could be heard over the deafening explosions was tail-curling.
Kit’fe was snapped out of her stupor by a trilling from the command console. “Incoming transmission from the station,” said the comms officer.
She leaned back in her chair. “Accept it, but send audio only.”
The carnage was replaced by a human dressed in a stark white suit. “This system has been purchased for a private event. Who are you?”
Kit’fe spoke, hoping their newly purchased translation matrix would hold up. “We’re traders.”
“Ah. Well, I am going to have to ask you to vacate the premises and,” he paused and brought a finger to his ear, nodding to something, “Yes sir, okay sir.” He turned his attention back to Kit’fe. “I have been told to extend an invitation from Sir Reginald. Please dock in bay 6 at your earliest convenience.” With that the line was cut and the screen returned to the raging battle.
Before Kit’fe could even let loose a sigh, another voice echoed through the bridge. It was a low rumble that came from seemingly nowhere, whispering, “Help us, please.”
“What… what was that?” Kit’fe’s voice was hesitant as she whipped her head around searching for the voice’s source.
It was her first mate, Ishkik, who spoke first. “A psionic broadcast, ma’am. It came from the planet.”
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“Psionic? That brain-melting stuff?” Kit’fe looked around the bridge, seeing how the rest of the crew were equally as disturbed as her. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we should get far away from here.”
There was a chorus of agreement until Ishkik spoke up. “But what about the planet’s inhabitants?”
“Those weird bugs? What about them.” Kit’fe let loose a small chuckle as she spoke. “I’m certainly not risking my ship and clanmates for those things. They creep me out.”
“The humans were creeped out when the first ratmen started speaking. We can’t follow in their footsteps and condemn a planet to die just because they look different.” There was a pause as Kit’fe considered his words. “We have to be better than that.”
Kit’fe exhaled heavily and threw her hands up in defeat. “Fine!” She pulled one of the bridge assistants aside and said, “Get Daniel. And tell him to wear his inner sphere clothes. We have some rich idiots to fleece.”
~
The station was brilliant, grandiose, and luxurious. Daniel hated every second of being on it. He had helped the ratmen because his conscience couldn’t accept leaving their thousand-strong clan to die, and now he smiled and shook hands that were coated in the blood of millions. But Kit’fe had said that was part of the plan, so he gladly did it.
It was infuriating in another way. All these rich folk looked down on him just because he didn’t own a planet like them. He saw it in the way they talked to him, in how they offered to buy him drinks or assured him that he didn’t have to take part in bets. Bets regarding how many aliens each individual could kill when it was their turn to pilot a titan.
It was a game to them. They caroused and drank while the planet’s inhabitants fought a desperate battle for survival. If Kit’fe hadn’t promised they would get their comeuppance he would have punched them in their fat faces by now. For now, he would settle with eating on their dime.
As he sat and stewed in a criminally comfortable chair, Daniel noticed a commotion at the betting corner. A small crowd had gathered to stare at the screen where the most recently dropped titan was being dismantled. The aliens were crawling over its toppled frame, tearing it apart panel by panel.
When what was happening sunk in, shouts started coming from the crowd. It was chaos and the signal for Daniel to do his part.
He activated the transponder in his pocket and pulled out a pistol. A few shots into the ceiling got everyone’s attention. “Nobody moves!” he yelled, and the patrons complied.
Well, not all of them. Sir Reginald, the man who invited him onto the station, stepped forward. “Daniel? What is the meaning of this?”
“The meaning of this is we’re putting a stop to this?” Daniel motioned to the betting screen.
“We?” Reginald said in a confused tone. As he spoke a grate was dislodged from the ceiling and a team of ratmen saboteurs spilled out of it, weapons at the ready.
“We.” Fhir, their team leader, confirmed. She turned to Daniel and smiled. “Hello, Daniel. The station’s command center has already been captured. All that’s left is to deliver the VIPs to the alien hives.
“Let's hope your victims are more merciful than you,” Daniel said to the station’s patrons as the saboteurs marched them out.