"Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Eagle One-Three-Five, we are floating free, engines dead. Mayday, mayday, mayday." Nayler Gibson sighed as he sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You'd think some bugger would have bloody heard us by now, Gibbo," whined Rayalls Napier, for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

"For fuck's sake Nape," snapped Gibson, "learn some damned patience! We've issued the mayday, I've put the bloody thing on loop, and we'll just sit tight until some schmuck turns up. Just," he sighed again, wondering for the umpteenth time why he had signed the moaning sod on, "be patient."

They settled down into silence; patient and comfortable for Gibson; sulky, petulant and no doubt pouty for Napier. Needs must I suppose, thought Gibson, promising himself to be pickier the next time he hired on crew.

Times were hard for both the Velvet Glove Corporation and Iron Fist Security ever since the failed coup on Texarcana.

Not that the fucking failure was our fault. But the Dominion liked its scapegoats and, right now, they were the perfect stool pigeons. As a result, recruitment queues that had once stretched the length of a docking bay were now reduced to pathetic, twitchy specimens such as Rayalls Arseknuckle Napier. What. A. Twat.

#

Five long, not-so-silent but rather whiney hours later, Gibson was just about ready to put a bullet through Napier's greasy-haired, long-faced head. Then there was a crackle as the comms unit kicked in and a slow Ozwin-accented voice drawled out of the speaker.

"Eagle One-Three-Five, this is Givens Two, Commander Leonard here, how can I help?" The accent was so thick that Gibson could barely recognise common parlay, the universal trade language, an ancient Tearan language called Anglish. Thankfully, Napier kept his gob shut as Gibson keyed his mic.

"Wellhey, Givens Two, engines dead, life support now starting to fail. How far you out?" He cast his eyes over the sensor array, trying to match Leonard's estimate with what they told him. "Roger that, thirty minutes. We'll be waiting."

From the reading his scanners gave him, Givens Two was a much larger freighter than the one they were currently drifting in, more than capable of picking up his ship and taking it back to port. The size indicated that Leonard had a lot of creds to his name. Freighters that size weren't cheap to buy, and they certainly weren't cheap to fuel and run.

A ship that size is either going to have a lot of automated systems, or a large number of crew, he thought. Looking over at Napier, Gibson’s mouth twisted. I can’t trust that plank. He might be a veteran, but damned if know how he survived this long.

Sighing, he keyed in a quick command, activating two combat droids. It was probably overkill, and they were damned expensive, but on the whole, he trusted them far more than his assistant.

And this was supposed to be an easy bounty, he thought bitterly, mouth twisting.

He toggled the targeting system on the one slightly pathetic laser they had, scanning through the various sub-systems that the other ship sported, taking note of each and every one. Fingers dancing across the hologrammic projection of the other ship, he quickly targeted weak points, marking them in order of priority. Just in case.

#

The manoeuvres required to match speed, orientate docking ports, match up those docking ports and then regulate the air flow between ships in a void required a delicate touch, a great deal of concentration and flawless mathematics.

That was exactly why any sane commander pressed the button on the console labeled auto-pilot, and then told the computer what needed to be done. After that, it was just a matter of sitting back, drinking some fine whiskey, and getting ready to welcome their saviours.

In the case of Gibson and Napier, this meant getting into their evac-suits, cursing as they fitted their catheters. No matter how many times Gibson had fitted one, it still felt unnatural. Still, it was better than drowning in your own urine whilst floating in zero-g.

Fed-up to the back teeth with Napier's complaining, he explained through gritted teeth that the reason they fitted their evac-suits was because no self-respecting spacer would trust a computer to ensure that the seals were tight, nor trust the last hick engineer to service the ship properly to make sure those seals were in tip-top condition. Especially not on a rust-bucket like theirs.

‘Well, you learn something every day. Never did understand why Marines liked their jobs so much. Still don’t. Much rather be on the ground where you can at least run away from the enemy.’

Gibson threw a sharp glance over at Napier. The idiot’s files hadn’t been glowing in their recommendations, but Napier had served with a number of different mercenary companies, and avoided any disciplinary matters beyond the usual drunken mistake.

Napier’s last statement had Gibson’s stomach turning. You don’t joke about running away when you’re about to enter a potentially dangerous situation.

Finally, the air locks cycled, the computers talked, the lights turned green and the doors hissed as they opened. Gibson squinted as lights in the other ship backlit the freighter's crew, quickly flicking down the anti-glare visor on his helmet.

"Executive Officer Wellard, requesting permission to come on board," crackled a voice in his ear. As ever the niceties had to be observed. Although the guns in the freighter crew's hands made giving his permission a moot point.

Slowly, and ever so obviously, Gibson raised his hands, fingers outstretched to show that they were empty.

"Wellhey there. Permission granted Mister Wellard. No need for weapons. I'm sure we can handle things nice and peaceful. We're just after a little succour is all." He laid on the hick Ozwin accent as thickly as he could. A core world Dominion accent didn't always go down so well amongst the citizens of so-called independent systems.

‘You’ll be getting all the succour you need,’ said Wellard. ‘All we want in return is your ship, your cargo, and you. Succour comes with a price afterall.’

As the pirates continued to advance he stepped slowly back from the opening, hands still high as the three figures started walking towards him, boots clanking on the metal decking. Poking his tongue out, he flicked a switch on his helmet's internal console and spoke softly.

"Three. All armed. Fire when I close my fist," his earpiece clicked three times, reassuring him that Napier was ready. He continued to back up until he was up against a bulkhead, a thick I-beam above his head.

The three freighter crew moved into his ship, stepping forward with the confidence of men who had made an easy snatch. Almost as if boarding ships broadcasting maydays was an everyday occurrence for them.

Unfortunately for them, Gibson being boarded was an everyday occurrence. Forcing down the adrenaline that was surging through his body, he took a deep breath, held it, and breathed out slowly. One more step of the lead boarder and a clenched fist signalled the start of less than two seconds of bloody violence.

Napier was quick to fire, his assault shotgun roaring on fully automatic, the mixed load of buck and flechette shells blowing bits of evac-suit, blood and flesh into the stale air. As soon as the shooting and screaming started, the boarders instinctively started to turn towards the source of the incoming fire.

That split second was all Gibson needed. He snatched his shotgun from where it rested on the I-beam above him. There were several reasons that spacers used shotguns. The first was because in space, no one wants to risk a fire or decompression. The second was because most ships have tight corridors and small rooms; shotguns mostly fire pellets or flechettes of various different sizes in an ever-widening arc which meant that people with very little skill could fill a tight space with a large number of deadly projectiles very quickly. The third was because those same tight corridors and spaces could cause bullets to ricochet around like a ball in an old pinball machine, killing friend and foe alike.

His shotgun bucked in his hands. He didn't bother aiming from the shoulder, just levelled the gun so that the barrel-mounted laser showed he was on target and pulled the trigger. Caught in a crossfire the boarders were cut to pieces, dropping bonelessly to the deck before they could even get a shot off, their magnetised boots causing their ankles to snap under the deadweight of their bodies.

Scooting forward, Gibson placed a shot in each of their chests, then waited a few seconds before giving Napier the all clear.

Chinning a command on his helmet’s computer, he sent the combat droids ahead of them.

‘Remember, they’ll be expecting their people to report in the next five minutes if everything goes as smoothly as they’re expecting. Only it’s not going to. I’m activating a pulse now.’

He chinned another command, and there was a sudden squawl over their earpieces. To anyone aboard Leonard’s ship it would look like a sudden failure of Eagle 135’s sensor array, something which always result in an EMP pulse.

‘Hopefully, they won’t be too suspicious if they don’t hear anything from Wellard.’

Napier said something instantly forgettable as Gibson followed the two small combat droids into the depths of the pirate’s ship.

#

Moving through the pirates' ship was a tense and nerve-wracking time. Every corridor, corner and door had to be checked before they could move on. Every unexpected hiss, clang and rumble made Gibson's trigger finger twitch, and his arsehole clench.

No matter how many times I bloody do this it never gets easier. He took a sip from his suit's internal water bladder, washing the acrid tang of adrenalin from his mouth.

Looking back he saw Napier's chest rising and falling rapidly, even through the suit he was wearing. Clearly the other man was feeling just as a tense but was struggling to nail it down. Gibson tried to push the thought that he really had fucked up when he hired Napier to the back of his mind. Now was most certainly not the time for the Dread Captain Hindsight to come to the rescue.

Their destination was the command deck. Situated at the very centre of the ship, safely tucked away from rogue space debris, lasers and missiles, it was literally the heart of the freighter.

‘Coming up to an intersection, sending droid 1 to cover.’

Scuttling along on eight legs like a murder-spider-from-hell, the droid ran up the corridor wall and hung from the ceiling, micro-caliber hyper-velocity minigun sweeping the corridor beyond.

Sparks erupted from its armour, a leg spiralling away as it was blown off. Its minigun opened fire, caseless ammunition ensuring the air wasn’t filled with spent cartridges. Edging closer to the corner of the corridor, Gibson poked his shotgun around, its sight projecting a clear picture of what lay beyond.

‘Good god,’ he said, mouth suddenly dry, ‘they’ve got a Steiner!’ Steiners were bioroids, cyborgs with artificially created biological organs. Used by the Dominion as slaves, they were ideal for combat. This one sported multiple shotguns, and some blade attachments which Gibson most certainly didn’t want to get anywhere near him.

Napier gibbered in reply, his fear infectious.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ yelled Gibson. Hating Napier more than he had thought possible at that moment. ‘Move across the opening when I say.’

‘No fucking way!’ screamed Napier as the droid was blown to smithereens and heavy footsteps could be heard approaching. ‘Steiners are serious shit!’

‘You were attached to a MechaPanzer unit. Grow some damned balls, or you don’t get get a combat bonus,’ snapped Gibson, squeezing off a couple of shots. More to do something than to seriously damage the Steiner.

‘Logistics! I was in logistics. I … doctored my resume,’ moaned Napier.

‘Xerxes the Everlasting!’ snarled Gibson. Closing his eyes in exasperation for a second, he took a deep breath, centering himself and pushing away the thoughts of what he’d do to the recruitment officer at Grinzo Docks.

‘I’ll send droid 2 around the corner, that damned beast’s only 10 meters away from us.

#

Looking around the corner of the well-lit corridor they were in, he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw a thick air-tight door with a helpful sign saying 'command deck'.

"Napier, we're there. Move forward to the door, I'll cover you."

Napier brushed past him and quickly covered the ten metres or so to the door, taking up a position to the right, angling his weapon so that it would cover the left-hand side of the room when it opened.

As soon as Napier was in position, Gibson rushed forward, taking up a position just behind and to the left of Napier, covering the right-hand side of the room. Taking a breath he tongued his mic three times.

Napier snapped out his elbow, slamming it into the door release. As soon as the door had risen fully, Napier swept the left hand side of the room, then stepped round to the right, quickly followed by Gibson who stepped round to the left, their guns sweeping the corners quickly and efficiently.

"Don't fucking move! Iron Fist bounty hunters, we have a warrant!" He laid the sights of his shotgun over the open-mouthed and wide-eyed face of a teenage girl, who, very wisely in Gibson's opinion was quickly raising her hands.

"Is there anyone else on this ship? Are you Elspeth Givens?" She nodded jerkily, mouth open as she gasped for breath.

"Good girl, rest easy. We only have a warrant of arrest for you. Now, I need you to remain calm. Your daddy and brothers are dead. We had no choice, they were armed and you know how many people they've shot." He winced as the girl's face crumpled and she began to sob, hands clutching at her hair.

"You fucking snatch head!" She screamed at a pitch that Gibson didn't realise was possible and spun to point at Napier, "Fuck y..." Blood erupted from her neck and she dropped bonelessly to the deck, her head slamming into the floor with an eye-watering thunk.

Napier lowered his shotgun, "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." He didn't get to finish what he had been about to say either as Gibson rushed forward and smashed the butt of his shotgun into Napier's stomach, the force of the blow carrying through even the thick material of his suit.

"You stupid wet quiff! She. Was. Unarmed!" Gibson punctuated each of the last three words with hard stamping kicks to Napier's gut, the man writhing in pain and desperately trying to fend the heavy boots off.

"I thought she going for me, it was an accident." Napier gasped through sobs, Gibson's helmet speakers planting the man's whining voice deep in his ears.

He leaned down and snatched Napier's gun from his hands, cursing himself for taking on such a cretin. "She was a kid you dumbass. A scared, unarmed kid!" he roared into his mic. He sighed, leaned down and grabbed Napier's arm, hauling him to his feet.

"Scan for any other life forms." Napier stumbled towards a panel and quickly did as he was told, sobs subsiding into sniffling punctuated by constant whining that it was an accident.

Gibson felt his stomach roiling with anger as Napier's voice flooded his ears, now blaming the girl for pointing at him. He took a deep breath, Calm down, get the job done, get paid.

At Napier's stuttered confirmation that there was no one else on the ship, they set about the grisly task of collecting and tagging the bodies for delivery.

#

Gibson strolled down the hotel corridor, arms outstretched, fingers brushing along the painted walls. Every door he passed he mentally counted the numbers down until he was finally at the rendezvous.

He knocked, three times quickly, three slowly. Then gave the door two quick boots.

The three-inch steel composite door hissed open, heavy bolts thinking back into their housings. Considering they were on a space station, the air-tight security was more than reassuring. Banner might have been a frontier planet but, unlike some places he'd had the misfortune of being in, they hadn't skimped on building the gateway to their planet. The walls that the door revealed were also thick steel composite. So thick it might actually be possible to get a good night's sleep, he thought, the idea so appealing that he could almost feel a cool pillow pressing against his cheek.

As the door continued to draw back, Napier's grinning face was finally revealed. "Boss! Good to see you, please, enter my abode." He stepped aside and waved Gibson through, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed in a clumsy attempt at bonding.

Gibson strolled over to a club chair facing the door and settled himself whilst Napier waited for the door to finish closing. Neither spoke until the door hissed as the seal was closed.

"Kill Warrant has been filed, the creds are in the account. The Ozwin Police Service thanks us for our service." The chair creaked as Gibson shifted his weight, adjusting itself automatically to his body shape.

Napier laughed as he turned away from the door. "Sure was a damn good jo..." Screaming as his newly shattered kneecap gave way, he pitched face forward onto the carpet.

"What ..." He screamed again, clutching at the yellow shards of bone that pierced his flesh. "What did you do .... do that for?" He sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"You killed the girl. What the fucking hell did you think would happen? That we'd laugh about it, have a drink, fuck some whores?" He laughed at the look on Napier's face, Dumb shit really did!

"But ... it was an accident. She was a criminal." Gasped Napier, a small bubble of snot popping out of his nostril.

"Yeah, well this isn't." Gibson's next shot plastered the door with Napier's head. Blood jetted into the air from the stump of his neck as his heart continued to pump, splashing the ceiling and contrasting, in Gibson's opinion, rather nicely with the decor.

He waited for five minutes, gun pointed at the door, ears cocked for any panicked screams or shouts of alarm, but nothing and no-one came. Kicking off his boots he wandered over to the bed, lay down, closed his eyes and slept deeply and dreamlessly.