Fatal Containment

Fatal Containment - Chapter 32

Chapter 32

"It's on a small moon orbiting a Class V gas giant only two parsecs away," Larson commented. "It isn't on any of our navigation charts, but the gravimetrics are giving us a general read on its mass and size," she said reading all available input from their scanning network, despite having the port side scanners unavailable.

"Time to intercept?" Owen asked.

"At our current speed, we should be in scan distance in twenty-seven minutes, sir."

Owen sat forward and studied the star field as it sped past the ship. He thought a moment and then spoke directly to Connor.

"We should expect a hostile welcome, number one," he said.

A few members of the bridge crew looked up at the captain's use of the traditional honorific for the XO. Going back to the early days of sailing on Old Terra, a First Lieutenant was considered not necessarily a rank, but a position. He was the "first" of the ship's officers below the captain. Larger sailing vessels had second and third lieutenants to designate their position in the chain of command. Since the Imperial Navy adopted many of its traditions from Old Terra, executive officers continued be nicknamed "number one", even though Second and Third Lieutenants were not typically designated by number.

"I agree sir. Strategy?" Connor asked.

"Right down their throats, number one," the captain said.

* * *

"Sir, I'm picking up three power signatures directly ahead," Larson said, as she studied her sensor read out. "CIC makes it three hornet class destroyers, bearing 215 and 30 degrees off the system elliptical," Larson reported, her voice steady despite the situation. Her fingers stroked switches on the console, adjusting the ship's sensors to keep a constant lock on the enemy vessels.

Owen ordered the ship's speed reduced to one quarter light speed; a tactical move designed to give them more time to react to the enemy's maneuvers. The Dominion was a formidable warship, but against three destroyers, the fight would get messy.

The moon was orbiting a class V gas giant, a large planet mostly composed of helium and hydrogen. This particular Jovian had an orbit that brought it very close to its star, such that its surface temperature must soar into the thousands of degrees.

The ship hummed slightly as it slowed to enter standard orbit around the moon, the stars outside the viewports seeming to shrink as they adjusted their speed. As they neared the tiny planetoid, sensors displayed its gray surface pockmarked with craters and scars from countless meteor impacts. It was a desolate sight, but it could provide a bit of cover, a small tactical advantage they could use if they could get close enough.

As expected, the communications console beeped, a shrill sound that cut through the silence on the bridge. The commander of one of the destroyers was hailing them, his voice cold and demanding.

"Terran vessel, state your business in this sector," the voice demanded, the tone leaving no room for argument.

Owen, seated in his command chair, leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the main viewscreen. His face was a mask of calm, but his eyes were hard.

"We're here for our officer," Owen replied, his voice steady. "Turn her over and we'll pretend we don't know you're here."

The enemy commander scoffed, his disdain clear. "A Terran ship drifts into Kantian space? You should have brought a full task group."

"Unnecessary," he said, his voice cold. "The Dominion stands ready to wipe you from the sector. Try me."

Connor and Larson shared a glance. In the captain's current state of mind, anything could happen. He might even be prepared to self-destruct his own ship to end this standoff.

The enemy commander looked to someone outside the viewing pick up and a new face walked into view.

The screen flickered and a man appeared. He was middle-aged, his face hardened by years of living on the edge of the law. Owen's eyes narrowed as he instantly recognized him.

"Robert," Owen said, his voice cold.

Robert Andreas Wölfflin was a man who had seen his fair share of battle. His face was a roadmap of scars, each one a testament to a contract fulfilled, a battle won. His eyes were a cold, calculating blue, always assessing, always planning. His hair was a grizzled gray, cropped short against his scalp, and his beard was neatly trimmed, giving him a rugged, yet disciplined appearance.

He was dressed in a uniform that was as unique as the man himself. It was a mix of military and creative flair, a testament to his status as a successful mercenary. The jacket was a deep, midnight blue, adorned with various insignias and patches that recorded his successful contracts. Each one was a badge of honor, a testament to his skill and ruthlessness. His trousers were a darker shade of the same blue, tucked into sturdy black boots.

Seeing him at the mining base brought back a flood of forgotten memories of Owen's life in the academy. A simpler time with simpler rules of engagement.

Robert smirked. "Owen, you should have done the deal at the abandoned mining colony. Now, I'm holding all the cards and there's been a price increase."

Owen's jaw tightened. "You've mistaken my intentions, Robert. I'm not buying anymore. I'm selling. And I'm prepared to pay any price you care to name to avenge my wife's death."

Despite Wölfflin's hardened exterior, there was a certain charm about him. He had a way with words, a charisma that could sway even the most stubborn of individuals. He was a man who knew his worth and wasn't afraid to demand it. And in his line of work, that often meant a hefty sum of money.

Robert tilted his head in amusement. "What are you offering, Owen. My retainer is quite expensive."

Owen turned to look at Connor, his gaze filled with determination. "Myself, and every imperial secret I possess," he said. "In exchange for my science officer. To sweeten the deal, I'll also throw in a working copy of the new communication technology. I'm in direct, real-time contact with my officer right now. You're your troops examine the secret tablet she is hiding."

Robert considered the offer, waiting while the destroyer commander confirmed what Owen said was true. Having access to a Captain of the List, and imperial access codes, fleet assignments, was a worthy prize. Plus, a working copy of 'Project Containment' was easily worth the trade. And if Owen wanted to pursue his late wife's tormentors, being a mercenary went a long way to circumventing any imperial laws that might stand in his way. After a long moment, Robert smiled.

"We have an accord," he said, and the communication was terminated.