The Triddian Sector extended as far as a scanner could see, and farther. Stretching out to infinity, it was an unending roll of blackest velvet, diamond-bright stars, and a wide array of pastel-colored planetoids of varying mass. Recently liberated from the Nilbog Empire thanks to the blood and sweat of Space Marines and about two hundred warships from the Galactic Navy, it now looked like any other Sector that belonged to the Allied Worlds.
Two silver, needle-shaped ships shot through the cosmos, shining brilliantly in the light of countless stars. They bypassed planets and moons in wide arcs, speeding past them with purpose and determination.
Brackett punched a button. A screen on the console lit up with a display of what few details the mission was based on:
Professor Tholgrum boarded the GPF Patrol Cruiser, Lancelot, in the care of two officers and departed Daruuk. The Lancelot charted the most direct route to Deep Space Outpost Twenty-Five, where the professor was scheduled to continue on to other worlds at the Core of Allied Space, where he would share his insights and experiences of the Triddian Sector and Nilbog rule.
The Lancelot is now two days late, and fails to respond to communications.
Your orders are to track down the Lancelot, and learn the fates of the missing GPF officers and Professor Tholgrum. Return them to DSO-25 if able, otherwise report back.
Cmdr. Kraxull
With a grunt, Brackett switched off the screen. He and Ginsberg left from DSO-25 and were now three days into the newly-conquered Triddian Sector. His ship's sensors were constantly scanning for signature particles, but it had yet to find proof that a GPF ship had passed here recently. He sighed and hit the comm though he was sure he knew the answer he’d get. "Ginsberg? You picking up anything? Over."
"Not a thing, Brad." Ginsberg's voice sounded tinny through the headset. "Can't see that anyone's flown through here since the big fight a month ago. Over."
Brackett was bored. "We're… what? Two more days to Daruuk, right? Over."
"Two-point-six-five," Ginsberg replied, "But who's counting? Ove…wait. Brad, I'm picking up something on the edge of my scanning range. Check your two o'clock. What is that? Over."
Brackett flipped a switch. "I'm not sure. Whatever it is, it's fabricated. Synthetic. Maybe it's part of the Lancelot. We'd better investigate. Over."
"Right behind you. Over."
Both ships banked to starboard, speeding towards a bright blue planet circled by a small red moon. The starcharts identified it as Oublaat, a world dominated by oceans of water that were poisonous to eighty-eight percent of the known civilized races.
According to their instruments, something small and metal was orbiting the moon. They approached at a steady gait and soon its features were visible even with the naked eye. It was little more than a box, with four spindly legs, two solar panels sprouting from opposite sides like wings, and a long antenna on top. It was a dark and grungy thing that oscillated its way along its slow, fixed orbit with a winking red light that seemed to watch the two approaching ships like a baleful eye.
"Some kind of satellite…" Ginsberg remarked. The voice on the comm. paused, then hastily added, "Over."
The satellite stabilized, stopped its own rotation. A panel opened, and a conical object extended from the body on a pole. Lights flashed from somewhere inside the machine.
"What's it do…" was all that came over the comm.
Brackett turned; saw through the steelglass canopy that Ginsberg's ship was still there. "Ginsberg? Ginsberg, do you copy? Over."
There was no response.
Brackett's hands scrambled over the console, working the controls in a complicated sequence. The readings on one computer screen confirmed his suspicions: the satellite was jamming his radio. With a frown, he grunted. "So, what's it all about? Some Nilbog device, abandoned when they left?"
He didn't have any time to ponder an answer. No sooner had he finished asking his question aloud, than both of their ships shuddered, caught in energy beams that originated from Oublaat's small red moon.
Brackett struggled with the controls, but his ship refused to respond. Disgusted, he powered down the engines, and waited for an opportune moment. As his ship was pulled gently forward, his first thought was that he'd been caught in the small red moon's gravitational pull, but he soon realized the truth: He was caught up in a tractor beam.
He looked out through the steelglass canopy and saw that Ginsberg was also being pulled down toward the moon. Brackett checked his communicator, but found it was still being jammed. With a sigh of resignation, he removed his ZAP gun from the holster and readied himself for a fight when he landed.
A sudden thought occurred to him, and he scanned the approaching moon. Thirty hour rotation. Forty day revolution. No native water supply. No breathable atmosphere.
That was all he had to know. He opened a compartment and grabbed his helmet. He pulled it over his head, locked it in place, and hoped Ginsberg was doing the same.
Soon, the moon of Oublaat was close enough that Brackett could easily distinguish the various craters, crags, and ravines that made up its surface. He saw the tractor cannons that ensnared him and his partner standing stoically on one side of a cluster of landing pads and squat control towers. Not too far away, he could see opaque domes around some lunar outpost.
With renewed hope and inspiration he seized the controls and set his sites on the tractor cannons. He smirked, then squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. With a brief but sudden panic, he consulted his computers.
The weapons were locked down.
Brackett pounded the console in frustration.
The silver patrol ships softly touched down on a landing pad. Brackett clearly saw six armed figures approach, their laser rifles trained at the two cockpits. A movement out of the corner of his eye caused Brackett to turn. Two humanoids in ground crew suits were opening a panel in Ginsberg's ship. He spun around and saw two more doing the same to his own.
Too late, he tried to reignite his engines. They wouldn't even attempt to run. And before he could try a second time, the entire control console lost power. A single comm screen clung to life, a bright light on the portside wall. The words swiftly scrolled onto it:
Throw down your weapons. Surrender yourself peacefully and you will not be harmed at this time.
By then, he could see the three armed aliens who took up a triangulated position around the ship's stem, waiting for him to quit his dead fighter. They were all clad in armored spacesuits, their faces hidden by emotionless air-masks. He couldn't even tell what species they were, only that they all had squat, humanoid shapes.
With forced calm, he pushed up the canopy, then brought up the ZAP gun and fired. All three of the aliens fired back, and he sunk as deeply into the cockpit as he could. Their laser bolts exploded against the inside of the canopy. He popped up again, pointed his pistol at the alien on his starboard side, but before he could fire, the steelglass dome slammed down onto his arm, and he dropped the ZAP gun.
One of the aliens gestured with his rifle. Brackett nodded, pushed the canopy open again, then climbed down the ladder a few feet before jumping. He landed on the metal flooring with a thud, stood, raising his hands.
The nearest of the guards approached, nudged him with the laser rifle. A laser bolt screamed down from Ginsberg's cockpit like an Altrusian leechbird. The air-masks of his captors all snapped warily toward the other ship. The landing pad erupted with shouts and laser fire.
Laser bolts crisscrossed above the landing pad with lethal speed and fearsome—but unheard—shrieks. Brackett dove for his ZAP gun and rolled for the dubious cover offered by the nearest landing strut.
He raised the pistol, pointing it at his attackers. It spat energy bolts that streaked through the emptiness and bounced harmlessly off of the guardsman's armor. He didn't have time to swear before he had to duck their return fire.
His eyes darted around the landing area, searching desperately for inspiration. A squat control tower stood beside the landing pad, pipes and cables running up its side. Brackett couldn't read the identifying alien symbols on them, but he blasted at them anyway.
A restraining strap blew free, dropping the pipelines and cables onto the landing pad between Brackett and the alien guards. A pipe belched out breathable air which kicked up clouds of dust as cables spat electrical sparks.
Members of the ground crew rushed for the tower and began fiddling with control valves and access panels. Surprised but undaunted, the guards fired their weapons wildly through the thickening clouds of air and dust. Brackett returned fire, just as wildly, aiming for the center of the cloud.
While the moon bore no atmosphere, the space surrounding it was alive with laser bolts that rocketed soundlessly through the battle. Stray shots erupted from the clouds, ramming the silver rocketships or missing altogether, but one lucky stray shot burned into Ginsberg's shoulder. He dropped his ZAP gun to clutch the wound, and fell from the cockpit of his ship.
Brackett called out to him out of habit, forgetting that he could not be heard. He fired twice more at the concealing cloud before kneeling beside his fallen comrade. Ginsberg waved his free hand in a calming gesture and nodded. More laser bolts raced by and Brackett turned back to his meager hiding place.
There he found a member of the ground crew. The creature swung a heavy wrench at him and sent the ZAP gun flying from his hand, then reached up to Brackett's own ship and pulled a lever. The access door fell open and slammed into Brackett, knocking him to the ground.
The guards advanced through the dying cloud with their rifles trained on the two felled pilots. Behind them, the ground crew technicians managed to switch off all the severed cables.
One guard looked over the prisoners, then looked up at the ground crew tech. In response, the tech just shrugged, then turned and went back to his business. The guard shook his head in what seemed to be exasperation, then turned towards the domed outpost and signaled a small cargo transport with a wave of his arm. One of the guards checked on their felled comrade, looked up at the others and shook his head solemnly. One guard motioned toward the ground crew and gestured at their fallen man.
The small vehicle rolled over on oversized tires and waited as the guards put restraining cuffs on the prisoners and loaded them onto the cargo platform. The guards climbed aboard also. One guard tapped the driver and pointed towards the domes. With a nod of his helmet, the driver seized the controls, and the small conveyance rolled steadily and ominously forward until it was swallowed up by an airlock that led into the domed outpost.
Once safely inside the airlocks, the guards removed Brackett's and Ginsberg's helmets and their own breathing masks. Brackett set his jaw and glared with unbridled hatred at the broad, warty green faces.
"Nilboggi!" he rasped.
Beside him, Ginsberg grunted with dark humor as he clutched his wounded shoulder. "It looks like the marines missed a spot when they were driving them out."
"We'll have to figure out what this place is and report back to the Commander," Brackett said as he sat up and looked around with a critical eye. A nearby guard babbled Nilboggi gibberish in a commanding tone and nudged him with the rifle.
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