Wreckers: A Denver Boyd Novel by George Ellis (ebook reader ink .TXT) 📕

“You’re lucky I didn’t put you down for good,” he said.

I slowly stood up. My neck muscles were on fire and my right shoulder clicked painfully every time I rotated it. My pride wasn’t in the best shape either, if anyone was keeping score.

“To answer your question, we need you because we need to get someone on board the ship before we destroy it, to remove an item of extreme value,” said Desmond. “And who better than a mechanic?”

That sounded pretty thin to me. I could think of a million people better than a mechanic to board the Rox and steal something. Again, Desmond could tell what I was thinking.

“And this is where our interests intersect, Denver. There are currently 19 crew members on the Rox, and I’m only asking you to kill 18.”

“Oh good,” I snarked. “Who’s the happy survivor?”

Desmond raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Your brother.”

I’d had less than a second to process that news when high-pitched klaxons sounded throughout the ship. Desmond snapped his attention toward the monitor on the wall and the Rox was replaced by another vessel – a federation warbird. All 2,000 meters of her.

Edgar rushed out of the room, presumably to his battle station.

“Follow me,” Desmond ordered. I fell in behind him as we left his quarters. The hallway was chaotic, with burly men and women rushing to their respective posts.

“So this is the war,” I muttered.

“No,” Desmond corrected as we raced through the galley. “This is you being a fugitive. You’re lucky I don’t want them to have you at the moment.”

“Oh yes, I certainly feel lucky,” I said, trying to rub my aching shoulder as we navigated our way onto the bridge. The chaos there was at least a bit more choreographed than in the rest of the ship, with a core team of Desmond’s finest handling the situation. They didn’t exactly stand to military attention when he arrived, but they definitely gave him a wide berth.

“Status,” he demanded.

“I need to get back to the Stang –” I tried, before he cut me off with eye daggers.

“Federation warbird,” reported a thin woman with jet black hair and a matching black jumpsuit. “It appeared out of nowhere, captain. One second, nothing on the scan. The next second, it’s within firing range.”

“How is that possible?” Desmond asked. For the first time I saw a crack in his cool demeanor.

“Not a damn clue,” the woman responded. “They’ve been hailing us for about a minute now.”

Desmond sat in his captain’s chair and swiveled toward the large screen on the wall. My first thought was, damn, his chair was way nicer than mine. But then I thought of Batista on the Stang. Would she know what to do? She seemed to be a capable engineer and a total mauler when it came to physical confrontations, but I had no idea if she’d be out of her depth at the helm of the Stang at a time like this. Like a punch to the gut, another thought hit me: my brother was alive. Maybe. Ten minutes ago, Avery had been dead. According to Desmond and a giant, he was alive and on board the Rox.

Desmond cleared his throat and was about to answer the beam when he looked back at me. I was standing right behind him. “Probably not a good idea for you to be on screen when I open a dialogue, Denver.”

The man had a point. I sheepishly moved off to the side. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me – they all knew my presence was the reason for this potential fight. A federation warbird was no joke, even for the Golden Bear. What the fed vessel lacked in speed and talent (most federation pilots aren’t worth a damn), it made up for in brute force. While the Bear had rail guns, the bird had twin rail cannons, basically the same weapon with twice the power, thanks to the larger steel projectiles with galvanized cores.

The wild card was this particular ship’s stealth. Most fed vessels this size were bulky and relied on overwhelming force, but this one had somehow snuck past the Bear’s defenses. It either meant someone was asleep at the helm of one of the baddest ships in the galaxy, which was unlikely, or that the blue suits had themselves some kind of new technology. The arrogant face that appeared on the monitor suggested the latter. The sharp-jawed woman was in her 30s. She exuded federation, from her icy demeanor to her buzzcut.

“Hello,” Desmond said, opening the dialogue. He always liked to be the first one to speak, and in my experience, the last. “That’s a sneaky ship you have there. Don’t normally see stealth on a bird that size.”

Right to it, then. The fed captain didn’t bite. Instead, she got right to it as well.

“You’re currently docked with the ship of a known fugitive,” she said. “I assume you have him in your brig and are willing to hand him and his companion over to face justice.”

“One should never assume, Captain…?”

“Slay. Admiral Slay of the DTX Burnett,” she corrected, more for the record than to score points. Her confidence came from somewhere deeper than her rank. I liked that about her. I didn’t like that she wanted me dead or in prison.

“Pardon the mistake. I meant no offense, admiral.”

“Of course not. Mr. Boyd and Mrs. Batista. Do you have them?”

“Jurisdiction, admiral. I think that’s the first part of this discussion, don’t you?”

Slay smiled. It was not a friendly one. “If that’s the case, it’ll be a short conversation. You’re outgunned. Outclassed. And docked with a ship. I have you dead to rights if I want you.”

“Do you want me?” Desmond replied.

I had to admire his old-fashioned wise-assery. I wish I’d been in the chair to deliver that retort. Slay acted as if she was expecting it, but I could tell she was taking a moment to determine the best way to respond. With humor? With derision? Being a good captain