CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kaligan and his men howled at the Navy's pitiful attempts, flooding the Gallowmare's bridge with rapturous laughter. Knowing their weapon would do little to his shields, Kaligan delighted in the thought of their disbelief upon seeing his ship unscathed. Underestimating the pirates, no matter how crude the construction of their ships appeared, was unwise.

Embedded in the complex network of machinery that made up his throne were several control switches. Kaligan flicked the rightmost switch and the speaker systems throughout the ship crackled to life. Upon hearing the sound of their lords' voice, the crew fell to their knees.

“It appears the Admiral is less than pleased with our sudden intrusion." The crew cackled at Kaigan's sarcasm.

"I think a reply to their discourteous welcome is in order,” Kaligan said in yet another cryptic command, the vagaries of which were promptly translated.

In a hasty tide of grunts and profanity, the pirate masses proceeded to the lower decks. Soran, not wanting to be singled out, followed along and descended the narrow stairways to the engine rooms below. As he jostled his way through the unwashed horde of men he was thrown forward. With an abrupt jolt, the ship lurched from its defensive stance with all the grace of a stampede as the Gallowmare initiated its predatory advance.

Kaligan had set his ship on a collision course with the Lanza. Soran’s mind raced, caught in a barrage of rough shoulders and elbows. He found himself sinking in and out of his guilt but knew that dwelling on the day's tragedies was sure to get him killed.

There must be a way out of this.

His only hope was to somehow get on board the Navy vessel and hitch a ride back to a neutral port or, if he was lucky, back to the Hyacinth. That was if the pirates didn't destroy his salvation before he could enact his great escape. Unbeknownst to the boy, his wish was about to be granted.

He swung around a corner on a tide of muscled bodies and emerged into a protracted hangar. Hexagonal hatches studded the walls on either side in what must have been the Gallowmare's most uniform display of architecture.

The pirates formed single file lines, around ten men behind each hatch, gearing themselves up for battle. The man in front of Soran turned to hand him a plasma rifle, the bloodstains of its most recent victim still crusted onto the outer casing. The pirate pulled out a small bottle of white liquid with a paint tip and sprayed a crude rendition of Kaligan's emblem over the chest of Soran’s Magtech suit, tapping the neck clamps to activate the suit's helmet.

“Go get 'em killer.” the pirate said, slapping the boy on the shoulder and knocking him back slightly. The description stole the air from his lungs, twisting his mouth into a sour frown.

Acceptance and respect were attained on the Gallowmare by adhering to the teachings of a solitary creed, violence. Murder was as commonplace as sleep or eating for the pirates. Far from being admonished, the act committed by the boy had sailed him through the ranks to a position of admiration. Wanting to belong, even to a group like this, was seductive. Though for Soran, becoming a monster was not worth the prize of acceptance.

The Gallowmare sailed full throttle toward the Lanza, her hideously ornamented bow slicing through the banks of glowing mist. Captain Noctei's crew were prepping a secondary attack with the Banshee. They had diverted all available resources to the pistons that powered the weapon.

Staring longingly at their Captain, the naval officers on the bridge waited for their next order. Her Vice-Captain knew much better than to ask and risk losing his position or even worse, an arm.

“Prepare to be boarded.” She said, taking her leave from the bridge. They all froze, startled by her statement. Each man unable to process the thought of a Citadel class vessel being breached.

“You heard her!” Shouted the Vice-Captain, breaking through his timid shell and rallying the officers to action. A standard-issue silver long sword and plasma pistol were handed to each man before they proceeded to the lower decks. Infiltration of lower-class ships was commonplace when fighting pirates, still preferring a personal approach to warfare. Hurling plasma blasts between vessels until the weaker of the two exploded was deemed an inglorious way to die as a pirate. Those that died as cowards would be judged unworthy of sailing Elyssia's endless oceans, condemned to fade into oblivion.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The paradise plane of Elyssia was a core belief for all pirate-kind. Living one's life in accordance with the code that decorated the pages of Atlazar was the only way to gaze upon the waters of the oceanic plane. As Soran looked around he saw visages of excitement. Despite most of the men being certain to perish, their final destination was beyond imagining. Leaving behind their decaying reality was not something to fear, but a fate to be quickened at every opportunity.

A bestial groan billowed from the Gallowmare's oxidized hull. Eight identical portholes spiraled open along the length of the ship, ejecting monstrous, tentacle-like hooked cables. Threshing over the ruined surface of the moon, the pincer-tipped appendages surged toward their target. The hooks pierced through the Lanza’s weakened shields with ease, embedding themselves deep into her silvery hull. A ring of white-hot laser eroded the layers of reinforced steel, sending rivers of molten slag careening through the pristine interior.

In the bowels of the Gallowmare, the hexagonal hatches shot open and the pirates charged. One after the other yelling unintelligible war cries as the vacuum tube flung them at high speed over the moon's surface. With an encouraging shove, Soran was snatched from his feet and sent tumbling down the tube. He grasped at the air manically, successfully clinging onto a metal outcrop that connected that tube's innumerable sections. Gripping with all the strength he could muster, the boy looked out and glimpsed motes of sparking rock floating above the fissure. Leaking from Banshee's devastating excavation were hundreds of speckled orbs. Soran squinted, pulling himself closer to the transparent casing of the tube. His limbs trembled with the realization that the beautiful cascade of the ascending matter was the aftermath of an unintentional genocide.

Countless Kahbohl were drifting out into space, their bodies frozen and lifeless. The Navy’s almighty attack had unintentionally shattered the artificial environment that protected the community of workers.

“How could they be so careless? So heartless?” Soran thought as the river of icy corpses floated off into the abyss. A lapse in concentration caused his grip to weaken, sending him flying out of the tubes far end. He landed clumsily on the shattered plating of the Lanza's interior halls; His exit throwing him dangerously close to a glowing puddle of molten steel. He brushed himself off and flinched, caught off guard by the sound of gunfire.

Upon bursting from the boarding tubes, the pirates were met by a platoon of Naval officers who were more than prepared, dispatching the initial wave of invaders with ease; their high caliber pistols making quick work of the pirate's inferior armor. The Navy trained their personnel to expect this kind of tactic, granting them the upper hand during raids. However, what the pirates lacked in originality they made up for with numbers. Wave after wave of men stormed the ship, forcing the officers to retreat to their second and third lines of defense. Soran used the small victory to enact his great escape, hiding in a maintenance room occupied almost entirely by cables, flashing screens, and countless valves; automatically self-adjusting for maximum efficiency. He sat and waited for the commotion to die down, listening for the sound of Kaligan’s pirates delving deeper into the Lanza. His fear stiffened body fell limp, limbs splayed at his sides like a deflated balloon. All he had to do now was hope for the swift defeat of the pirates and safe departure from the war zone. He clicked the clasps on his helmet, breathing deeply as it descended over his face. Even if he was lucky enough to somehow make it home, he would be no closer to saving Lanic. Helpless and alone he sank into the mass of cables that littered the floor. As he closed his eyes he was plagued by horrible visions of war. He imagined the screams of those on the wrong end of a pirate's blade or faced with the uncaring barrel of a rifle. The heinous images persisted until finally, his mind granted him the mercy of dreamless sleep.