“The wait is over,” Brenda mimicked from her seat on the bridge ten minutes later. “What a little twat!”

She punched a button on her armrest, and twin joysticks emerged on each side of the seat. Screens unfolded on telescopic arms, one of them knocking a new whisky bottle to the deck. She bent over, scooped up the bottle and shoved it tight between her fat thighs.

“Rat, you got that thing stowed?”

“Yep,” came the answer over the bridge speakers. “It plugged straight in, and it’s all connected up to Richard as well.”

“Rat, on internal comms, he’s not Richard. He’s Dick. A tiny, floppy, useless dick.”

“Yes Captain. Sorry. I connected the cargo to Dick.”

“That’s better,” Brenda said, grinning. “Katomi, you talking to traffic?”

The communication officer bent over her station, one hand pushed her headset against her ear, the other held a finger up, asking Brenda to wait a second. When she was done, she turned around.

“Saturn Traffic Control won’t give us clearance. There’s a security issue on the station and they’ve put everyone on lockdown.”

The front view screen flickered from a view of the ice-ring to the cargo bay they’d been in moments before. Their two monks, huddled behind a small storage rack, were being fired upon by half a dozen other monks. At least, the figures fanning out to surround brothers William and Jacob looked like monks. Albeit ones with black robes, and guns.

“Dick, are those projectile weapons they’re firing?” Katomi asked.

“Yes, they are. Small calibre, but dangerous on station, and forbidden. I wonder how they got them aboard?” he mused in a detached AI voice.

“Who knows, but it’s time we weren’t here!” Brenda said, “Rat, grab onto something down there buddy. We’re booking it!”

“Already grabbed.”

Katomi tightened her safety harness as the captain fed power to the engines, pulled back on one joystick and hard left with the other. Her boots stamped on pedals. The Vagabond shuddered under the sudden application of thrust and the bridge tilted violently upwards. They rotated in position until Brenda wrenched both joysticks back. In a matter of seconds, the manoeuvre had the ship now facing away from the Delta V’s cargo dock.

Katomi yelped. “Don’t burn the stati…”

But it was too late. Brenda shoved both sticks forward and stamped a foot on a power switch. The Vagabond’s thrusters lit up in a blaze of blue flame that washed over the station’s hull, turning it burnt orange.

“That looked expensive!” Katomi moaned, as the station shrank in the main viewscreen.

“Well, they can put it on my tab!” Brenda unclipped her harness. “Oi, Rat, you okay back there?”

“Only a bruised testicle or two. Nothing a massage from Katomi won’t fix.”

Katomi sighed. “Yep, he’s fine.”

“If I may?” The AI spoke up.

“You may, but only if you say something useful, Dick,” Brenda conceded.

“In ten seconds, Saturn Control’s orbiting station is going to open a channel. I’ve dealt with all their digital interrogations, but they’d like to speak human to human. I suggest that you feign fear and shock. Maintain the scenario I’ve established for us, that we panicked at the sight of weapons fire and escaped to preserve our crew and the ship. Captain — you can interject with a level of anger that security would allow weapons on board their station, and there’s no way you’ll be paying for any burn damage.”

The two women listened to this and shrugged at each other. “Seems solid,” Brenda said. “You don’t need to ask me twice to act pissed off. And it’s pretty much what happened, anyway.”

***

“What fucking church agents?” Brenda yelled at the harassed security chief on the main viewscreen. They’d listened to five minutes of traffic control admonishing them for breaching a dozen regulations.

The chief explained again, wondering why he was the one being interrogated.

“It appears agents of the CSC came here to intercept stolen cargo. They’ve killed their own people and shot up part of my station. What the hell did you steal?”

“We don’t know nothing about some church, or anything stolen. And how the fuck did they get past YOUR security with firearms?” She cut the channel to leave the man sweating on that for a while.

“Dick?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Are we far enough away that security can’t intercept us?”

“Yes. We have gained sufficient distance from the Delta V and its outposts, that any craft of theirs cannot reach us. Our current course also takes us well clear of System Security patrols, although this has required a deviation from our planned trajectory. We’ll need to correct this later, within a month.”

Katomi scowled. “You could have simply said, “yes.”

Dick ignored her. “However, the CSC ship chasing us appears far more capable. It has an acceleration profile that exceeds our own. The energy signature of its propulsion drives suggests an output at least one hundred fifty percent of the Vagabond’s.”

The captain flicked the comm channel back on. “I tell you what, Mister Chief of Security. You forget that itty bit of burn damage on your hull. It’ll buff right out. And I’ll forget that you’ve put my ship at risk with your piss-poor security, letting bloody religious fanatics on the station. Because right now I’ve got bigger problems than you.”

Saturn Security signed off in a huff, and the viewscreen returned to the deep black of space. The planet’s rings swept around the top left corner, and the Delta V shone from outside the last ring. A tiny sparkle now. Another moving sparkle outshone it and grew in brilliance as they watched.

The CSC ship.

“Rat, quit rubbing your testicles. This ain’t over yet!” Brenda said over ship comms. “Dick, distance from our pursuers?”

“I’ll answer that in measurements of time rather than space, it’s likely to be more useful to you,” Dick droned. “They’ll reach us in twenty-three minutes and fourteen seconds.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

“What’s the plan, boss?” Rat squeaked over the intercom.

“An Ambush.” Brenda stood and patted herself down, searching for a cigar. “We let them board and we jump them from behind.”

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***

“When will we reach that heathen ship?” Bishop Bertrand banged a bejewelled hand on the comms panel. His pointed mitre threatened to slip off his head.

“Twenty minutes, your holiness,” a monk answered from the intercom.

“Good. We’ll board, unleash hellfire on its blasphemous crew and recapture the pod. I want nobody left alive; you understand?”

“Yes, your holiness.”

The boarding party of five monks seethed on-mass at the docking airlock. Each brandished an Earth-type handgun and a deadly grimace. There was more killing to be done, in the name of the Lord.

“And remember,” the bishop snarled from all the ship’s speakers, “don’t fire at the pod. If the enemy is anywhere near it, use your knives.”

In unison, the squad checked the blades they’d hidden under their black robes.

The Church of the Second Coming’s ship “Righteous Fury” was coming fast, closing the distance to the Vagabond. A maniacal bishop at the helm, and a bunch of bloodthirsty zealots at the ready.

***

“We wait till they’re all locked inside the Vaga with us, alright,” Brenda whispered to her crew.” The more we can fight on home ground, the better.” They sat tight on the bridge, watching the enemy ship approach.

Dick dared to question her, “Is that wise, given they have a propensity to employ kinetic weapons?”

“He means they might use their guns…” Rat began.

“I know what he fucking means!” Brenda growled. “I’m not thick. You know what is thick though? The Vaga’s hull.” She leaned over to stroke the floor. “Twelve inches of carbonised titanium. They can fire their little pea shooters at her all day if they like pissing in the wind.”

“Far be it from me to disparage the ship’s hardened twelve inches,” said Dick, “but I fear your human anatomy doesn’t offer quite the same level of resistance to bullets. While you might be a foot thick in places, you are not made of carbonised titanium.”

“Is he being funny?”

“Possibly,” Rat answered. “His dialogue will adapt to align with ours. But anyway, he has a point.”

“Look, will you pussies stop wetting yourselves over guns?” Brenda smacked a fist into her other open hand. The leather made a satisfying thunk. “What’s the old saying… ‘Don’t bring a gun to a fistfight.’?”

“That isn’t the old saying…” Dick began, but was interrupted by the ship’s intruder alarm.

***

The crazed attackers burst through the airlock, into the Vagabond— and faced nothing more than an empty corridor. At least it looked empty. It was hard to tell as it blinked in and out of vision with strobing lights of crimson. And it was impossible to communicate, above the shrieking alarm.

They came to the first junction and the unfortunate monk in the lead had the business end of a whisky bottle smashed into his face from around the corner. The bridge of his nose shattered; the whisky bottle did not.

Whoever wielded the bottle disappeared into the shadows as the remaining monks stepped over their unconscious comrade.

They ventured further into the ship, single file, turning this way and that, looking for anything blasphemous to shoot. Behind them, a ceiling panel slid aside, and a compact figure dropped to his feet, trailing a thick electrical cable. He crept up to the intruder bringing up the rear and jammed the bare end of the cable through the monk’s cassock, seeking a butt cheek; he found one. In an instant, ten thousand volts travelled from butt to brain stem and the jittering monk sank to the floor. Rat helped him down gently, lest he alert those in front.

When realisation of their dwindling numbers dawned, the three survivors reported to the bishop. The brother given the unenvious task had to shout into the crucifix shaped radio around his neck.

“The enemy is elusive, your holiness. They’ve picked off two of our number, but we are yet to see them.”

The bishop fumed. “Hell, and damnation man! There’s only three heathens aboard and they’re unlikely to have weapons such as yours. Now, find them, and kill them, or I’m coming over there to kill YOU! In the name of our Lord!”

A while later, through the infernal lighting and din, their bishop’s voice blasted again from their radios, “Split up, you cretins. Whoever captures that Jezebel we saw back at Saturn can administer any punishment they see fit— before her execution!”

At least two of the monks frowned. Even for their bishop, such a suggestion seemed outlandish. But they all decided the reward outweighed their suspicions, and they drifted away from each other at the first opportunity.

“Divide and conquer,” Dick whispered into the Vagabond crew headsets, proud of his digital imitation of the bishop. He took control of the ship’s bulkhead doors and began closing them off behind one of the stray monks. He also replaced the illuminated blue text on an airlock hatch’s sign. Instead of “Danger— Airlock” It now read, “Katomi’s quarters. Keep out!”

The horny monk thought that keeping out was the last thing he was going to do. He had the opposite in mind. Penetration. He had a few seconds to wonder why the door to her quarters wasn’t locked, before it closed behind him. The second door in front opened.

The cold vacuum of space is a remarkable antidote for a raging erection.

Down in cargo, Katomi leaned against the mysterious pod in a short schoolgirl’s skirt and tried to look alluring. She regretted the pose when the pod puffed a cloud of cold gas against her bottom. The monk that rounded the corner could only stop and stare. The Jezebel he’d been looking for! And the holy cargo too! He’d get his end away AND be the hero of the day. He took two strides into the room, gun drawn.

Katomi held her ground and lifted a finger to her lips.

“Shush… if you make too much noise, the others will hear and spoil the fun,” she whispered. “And you wouldn’t want to fire that gun in here now, would you? Imagine what the bishop would say if you damaged this?” She patted the pod under her derriere. He got the message and let the gun clatter to the cargo bay floor.

Good, she thought, no cheating bullets. Now, wait till he’s nearer.

The monk, a leering grin on his face, fumbled inside his cassock and withdrew his blade.

Katomi squealed with delight. “Oh, you did NOT just draw a knife on ME!”

She hitched up her skirt and slid the widow-maker from the garter belt around her upper thigh. It gleamed with menace. The monk tried to ignore the sight of milky white thighs and concentrate on the task at hand.

“Yes, darling, let’s dance,” Katomi purred and prowled around him, cat-like.

He lunged. She slid easily from the kill zone, to the left, and down into a crouch. As he spun to face her again, she pounced, cleaving him open from naval to sternum. He screamed and dropped, clutching his bleeding belly.

Katomi knelt before her prey. “You silly boys, you never last very long, do you?” Her lips brushed against his ear as she drew her blade across his neck.

The remaining monk stumbled across Brenda as she attempted to reach Rat by radio. The engineer was somewhere in the ducts, setting up another trap, and the signal was too weak to make contact. Brenda was getting more and more frustrated, and the alarm had triggered another of her migraines.

So, when a black-robed moron appeared around the corner, pointing a gun in her face, she was already very pissed off. The first bullet ricocheted off the side wall as she marched towards him. The second, caught her in the right breast— but did not halt her stride.

She grabbed the gun and whacked him so hard over the head with it that he fell, stone cold dead.

Rat chose that moment to drop from the ceiling, panting.

“Sorry, the radio turned to shit, so I got Dick to figure out where you were and came to help.”

“Help?” Brenda scoffed, “who said I needed help? I was going to ask you if there were any bad guys left for me to kill. Apparently, there was at least one.” She toed the dead monk with her boot.

“You’ve been shot!” Rat exclaimed, eyeing the hole in his captain’s leather jacket.

“Have I?” she asked with genuine puzzlement, before noticing the wound and the leaking blood.

“Fuck! My best jacket! Right, that does it. This shit ends now!” And she marched off towards the docking port.

“I’m pretty sure most of this shit has ended already,” Dick offered from the nearby speaker. “All intruders have been despatched. No wait… there’s one still alive, but unconscious, near the port.”

“Give it a minute,” Rat suggested.

After a pause… “Oh yes, it appears he expired at the hands of the captain, just now.”

“More likely her boot.”

***

“Come in you heinous faggots, respond to your bishop!” the bishop shouted into the intercom as Brenda barged onto his bridge. The front of her jacket was caked in drying blood; her face ghostly pale as a result of hypovolemic shock from blood loss. Right now, she was powered by rage and rage alone.

He shrank back in fear at the sight. It had been decades since he’d seen a woman in the flesh. Let alone an enormous one. Or a black one. Or one that looked like she’d risen from the depths of hell.

Brenda flashed her famous fake grin, punched his holiness square in the face and lifted him to the ceiling with a fist full of the soft bits between his legs. Pinned tight against a ventilation grill, he screamed in pain.

“You scream like a girl!” Brenda said. “Perhaps I’ll turn you into one.” And she squeezed her fist tighter.

The resulting shriek hurt her ears, so she relaxed the grip.

“What’s in the box, Bishop?” she asked as calmly as she could. “What’s so precious you’d risk attacking my ship and pissing me off?”

The holy man gasped out an answer, desperate to avoid a tightening of his captor’s fingers.

“Adam. It’s… Adam.”

“Adam who?”

By now Rat and Katomi were on the Righteous Fury, watching with interest. Dick had shut down the enemy ship’s computer and taken control of its systems. “Captain,” he said, “you’re in need of medical attention. You’ve got a life-threatening wound.”

“No, I don’t. I’ve got a bishop by the ball bag!” she shouted over her shoulder before turning her attention back to the squirming lump of misery in her fist. “Now, who the fuck is Adam?”

“Adam, the first man,” the bishop croaked.

“What…” But Brenda’s brain was no longer receiving enough oxygenated blood to continue the interrogation, or to even stay awaken. Her limbs relaxed. The hapless clergyman dropped to the floor, clutching his crotch. He enjoyed a few seconds of relief before the Vagabond’s captain flopped on top of him, her weight breaking his neck.

“Get her to medical,” Dick ordered.

“And the bishop?” Katomi asked. “He’s not moving much.”

“The bishop’s dead,” answered Dick. “He can’t even move diagonally.”