This story takes place in the universe created by fellow writer "farbeyondourstars".
Olympus Beckons - Part 8: "All Hands - Repel Boarders."
"Pistolero" was ostensibly a tramp freighter, a battered-looking thing, typical of the many myriad independent freighters and the like that oft plied the remote spacelanes between colony and station out on the rim. But after a lifetime of being put to every manner of use, some more nefarious than others, by a series of often unscrupulous masters, her systems had been modified beyond almost all recognition.
Her armament, for instance, should have consisted of nothing heavier than light battery, and not the rapid-firing gauss cannons mounted on her prow. Those guns, and her concealed missile launchers, gave her a decent punch, for a Privateer. They were ideal for threatening merchant ships and could even knock out the gunboats and light corvettes that were all that some systems could afford as escorts.
But they were never, not in a pirate's worst nightmare, designed to take on a true warship. The Pistolero was fast, far faster than any old Invictus class ship. She was meant to run like Hell the minute she caught sight of her, not go toe to toe with a hulking armoured monstrosity like Zeus.
But that was all they had, and this was where they were.
Up on the bridge, Carson licked his dry lips and wiped at the sheen of sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand as he shook his head, "Fuck".
Blowing out a breath, he looked down at his console, fear making him hesitate for an instant before his shaking fingers stabbed at a control.
...
"Incoming!"
Frances lifted her eyes at the shout from tactical but made no reply. Glancing to her XO, she gave the man the briefest of nods before reaching up to slam shut the visor on her suit.
Seeker missies were classed as "light" munitions in the deadly realm of ship-to-ship combat. They were fast, nimble and short ranged. Each one being barely the size of a coffin, allowing for a decent magazine capacity in even a smaller ship. But they paid for those speed and size advantages by having a fairly pitiful warhead. Weighed against the shields and armour of a cruiser, that warhead was less than ideal.
But the crew of the Pistolero were desperate, not stupid. They knew their weapons were light, but they also knew their enemy was wounded, damaged in the brutal earlier exchange of fire. Her shields were weakened, her armour thinned. Now it was time to see if she had been lamed enough.
Each of the four missile launchers on the Pistolero was fed by a six-shot rotary magazine, and as the gauss cannons opened up, they went instantly to rapid fire. One of the launchers had been damaged, and even after hurried repairs, it jammed almost immediately. But despite that, it took them less than a minute to put nineteen missiles into space. All homing in on their pre-programmed target.
The first had barely cleared the launchers when it exploded.
Every point defence autocannon on Zeus opened fire instantly, sending a torrent of high-velocity slugs into space, clawing missiles out of the sky with machine-like precision. The speed of the response stunned Carson, and he felt the bile rising in his throat as one missile after another was torn to pieces or blown apart.
But seeker missiles were difficult targets, and they were quick. At least half of them were destroyed short of their target, but the survivors swept round, homing in on the wounded quarter of the damaged cruiser like sharks following the scent of blood.
For a moment, just one moment, a bright spark of hope burned in Carson's eyes, and he felt the sweet taste of victory on his lips. Only for it to turn to ash and dust, as Zeus rolled like a log, presenting an undamaged shield and intact armour to the incoming fire.
Concussive blasts shook the warship, wreathing one of her flanks in flame, but instead of heeling over like a dead whale, she shook off the blows, her bow righted, and the man's already pallid face whitened to the colour of sour milk as her forward gunports opened.
A hush fell across the bridgecrew of the Pistolero as they found themselves staring at the hellish fiery glow igniting within each of the half-dozen torpedo tubes that were being brought to bear. Those were definitely not light weapons. They were designed for an earlier war, a savage war; one where quarter or mercy was neither asked, nor given. They were for challenging other warships, not upstart pirates, and when they struck, they would smash Pistolero utterly flat.
"Shiiit..."
Carson stabbed at the controls, his shaking figures fumbling, "We surrender! Don't fire! Do you hear me? For the love of God, hold fire!"
Aboard Zeus, Frances pursed her lips, her fingers drumming a slow dreadful rhythm on the arm of her command chair as she considered the terrified voice coming over the com, and for a moment, Damon thought she might just ignore it and blow the poor bastard right out of the sky, surrender or no. But then she drew a deep breath and stirred.
"Damage report?"
He glanced at his board, "Shields holding; some minimal leakage resulting in minor buckling to portside armour. No impairment to hull integrity or internal systems, no casualties."
Pointing at the display, she sniffed, "Status of that... object?"
"She's dropped her shields and ceased fire, Captain."
Her lips moved and Damon thought he heard a murmured whisper, "Pity."
"Beg pardon, Captain?"
She shook her head, "Nothing."
Reaching forward, she keyed a command into her comlink, "Pistolero, this is Zeus. We acknowledge your surrender, though, I confess to being a little disappointed. Are you not even going to threaten us with the lives of your cargo? Why, it's almost as if you're not taking us seriously."
With an evil grin, she turned to Damon, "Maximum overloads on forward tubes, if you will, X.O. After all," she shrugged, "it's the only way to be sure."
"Yes, ma'am."
There was a terrified blubbering cry, "Nooo! Please! We don't have any left aboard. We transferred them all, I swear."
"He lies..."
The sibilant voice hissed from another monitor, and she turned to the speaker, "You have something to say, Commander."
The woman seated in the command chair of the captured prison transport had the cold unblinking eyes of a snake, and her smile, if it could be called as such, was every bit as reptilian. She nodded, her voice a malign whisper, "Only this, even in the world of slavers and criminals we keep accounts. To do otherwise invites being bilked by these... foreigners. We paid for a certain quantity of merchandise to be delivered to us, and..."
