Outlaw Galaxy 1: Trip and the Space Pirates, Chapters 11-20

The next afternoon, Trip had barely gotten back inside Uncle Craz’s repair bay when Brick slowly waddled up to him, the ground shaking with each step of his large, treaded feet.

Trip put his small backpack on the counter and shrugged. "Same as always. Nothing too exciting happened. Be sure to tell Uncle Craz when I got here. Right on time. I want him to know that I came back right after school."

Brick nodded. "I will be sure to let him know. I have an errand for you. You need to pick up some parts for a ship your Uncle is working on."

Trip unsnapped the backpack’s magnetic fasteners and pulled out several data crystals, which he dumped on the counter. Brick watched as a couple of them tumbled to the floor. Trip then pulled out his personal computer for homework.

"Brick, can you be sure to put these on my desk in my room? I’ve got a report to finish tonight. Now, what do I have to do?"

Brick retrieved the crystals from the floor and put them in a neat pile before answering.

"Run down to Ojin’s Salvage Yard. Your uncle had them set aside some power converters. He needs them for Reik’s ship and he wants to finish the job today, so go as quickly as you can!"

Great! Johnnie O.’s father owned Ojin’s. Trip hoped Johnnie would be working at the counter. Maybe he’d find out if the new scooter was finished.

Trip raced through Pennick’s Crossing Cargo Port, using side alleys and shortcuts to avoid the congested main streets. Now that it was late afternoon, most street traffic slowed to a crawl because of the constant stream of cargo barges and anti-grav cars and trucks. It took Trip half an hour to get all the way across town and he was completely winded by the time he walked through Ojin’s front door.

As Trip tried to catch his breath, Johnnie O. looked up from his computer screen.

Johnnie ducked through a pair of sliding doors and entered the back rooms. A couple of minutes later he came back through the sliding doors, cradling six two-foot-long metal tubes. Johnnie walked carefully, slowly, as if cradling a helpless baby. He gently placed the metal tubes on the counter and held them so they wouldn’t roll away.

Trip quickly examined the converters. They were fresh out of the box, had never been used, and, by the stamping on their cases, they had some kind of new technology that provided more power to a starship’s systems. They were expensive—but in the middle of a space battle, they’d be worth every Sted.

Trip wrapped each converter in a thin sheet of flexiplast and stuffed all six of them into his backpack. He quickly glanced around to make sure no one else was listening. Then he whispered to Johnnie, "Your Dad’s not around?"

Johnnie whispered back. "No. Big John’s in the back rummaging around for something. Wouldn’t even notice if I took the rest of the afternoon off."

"No, Johnnie, I’ve got to work at Uncle Craz’s. But, well, did you get anything?"

Johnnie nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! I found another scooter. It needs some work but it’s gonna be fast when we’re done with it."

Trip couldn’t wait to get started. "I can’t work on it tonight, but tomorrow after school let’s get started. Sand pits, same as before?"

Trip shook his head in disbelief. He tried to pull his backpack shut, but the ends of the converters stuck out and only two of the backpack’s five magnetic clasps would seal. He swung the pack over his shoulder and nearly stumbled to his knees. Those converters were heavy!

Trip heard the converters clang as he shifted the pack to his other shoulder. He thought to himself, Better not do that too often. Uncle Craz won’t be too happy to see them all banged up before they’re even installed.

Trip had to be careful not to move too quickly or the converters would fall out. Each converter was worth at least four thousand Steds. If they fell out or Trip lost them, he’d be working past his high school graduation to pay them off!

Johnnie held his hands out, gripping the invisible handle controllers of a make-believe anti-grav scooter. He twisted the throttle and tried to make vrooming! motor noises with his mouth, although he sounded more like a sputtering droid about to break down than a high-speed anti-grav scooter. "Wouldn’t miss it, Trip! Tomorrow!"

Trip made his way back through Pennick’s Crossing Cargo Port along the same route, although it took him nearly twice as long to get across the city because he had to be careful not to damage the converters. It was a hot afternoon. Only a few blocks from Uncle Craz’s, the heat finally got the best of Trip and he decided to stop at one of the shops for a cold drink.

A few minutes later, Trip stepped back out into the sun, clutching the chilled drink cup in his hand while he put the change into his pocket. Without a second thought, he stepped back out onto the permacrete walkways to head to Uncle Craz’s.

Then Trip froze. Not thirty feet away was Whistler, the yellow-skinned alien who’d threatened Uncle Craz yesterday. Whistler was looking the other way down the street. He rested his hand on his holstered energy pistol, tapping his fingers on the grip, while he intensely scanned the street. The alien breathed heavily and Trip heard a high pitched whistle escape from his gills. The alien looked impatient. He was watching everyone who passed his way, almost as if he was searching for something—or someone.

Trip’s heart raced. Uncle Craz had warned him to stay away from Whistler and his companions. It was probably nothing. Trip knew he shouldn’t worry. He’d just slip away and get back to Uncle Craz’s repair shop and by dinner he’d forget about this.

Whistler searched the street and started to turn back towards Trip. Rather than risk being spotted, Trip quickly scooted in front of a couple of tall humans, figuring that he could hide himself from view while they walked away from the area. Trip was almost to the corner when he glanced back to where Whistler had been standing.

While he continued walking away, Trip glanced back again, but he couldn’t see the alien. Then Trip spotted Whistler, now just ten feet away. The alien had one hand on his energy pistol, ready to draw it, while he held a small transcomm to his mouth. He was speaking into it and Trip knew the signal was being carried to other transcomms on the same frequency, probably ones carried by Whistler’s buddies.

Trip tried to turn the corner quickly, but someone in pilot’s clothing stepped in front of him. Trip stopped quick so he wouldn’t run over the man, who shouted, "Hey, watch it kid!"

The pilot’s angry voice carried across the street. Trip really didn’t need this attention right now! As he tried to get around the man, he glanced back to see if Whistler had spotted him.

Without thinking, Trip dropped his drink and took one, then two steps. He bounced off the pilot in front of him. The pilot screamed, "I said watch it!" but Trip was already gone.

Trip jumped right and darted around a corner, running hard. Trip’s backpack bounced up and down with each step, throwing him off balance. Trip knew he’d never get away from Whistler at this rate! He stopped and pulled the pack off his back. Trip held the backpack with both hands and carried it in front of him. He took off again, racing down the street as fast as his legs would carry him.

As Trip ran, he knew he’d only be ahead of Whistler for a few moments. Whistler would catch him—or Slayton or one of his other friends would show up. Trip knew he didn’t want to get caught by them no matter what happened.

What could he do? He had to find a place to hide—or maybe a short cut so he could get back to Uncle Craz’s before they found him.

Trip ducked into an alley and raced around several trash dumpsters. Up ahead, a cargo sled nearly blocked the alley. Next to it, there was a door leading into a building. It was wide open.

Trip ran as fast as he could, shimmying between the cargo sled and the building wall. Then he heard someone just inside the open door.

Trip shouted, "Look out!" as a man carrying a cargo crate stepped from the building into the alley, right in front of Trip. Trip bounced off the man and ducked. He felt the crate brush the top of his head. He kept on running at full speed and bounced off the cargo sled before breaking into the clear alley beyond.

When Trip got into the open alleyway, he looked back and saw the cargo sled was rocking, with several crates now scattered on the ground. The man was scrambling to scoop up the crates. When he saw Trip, he shouted, "Look out, you blasted kid!"

Trip had just a moment to scream back, "Sorry!", but then he saw Whistler back at the beginning of the alley.

Fear drove Trip as he raced down the alleyway and soon he emerged on another street. The sidewalks were clogged with pedestrians, so Trip darted out into the vehicle roadway. He looked behind him down the alley and smiled to himself when he realized that Whistler got held up by the worker Trip had bumped into. At least that would give him a few more seconds.

Trip looked up and down the street and realized he had just a few moments to cross without getting run over. In a mad dash, he was on the other side of the street and down another alley. He smelled fresh-baked sweet cakes and scared two kids that were playing with toy starships, but he got through the alley and onto another street in just moments. That might give him a little time, he hoped. Trip stopped for a few seconds, panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath: Those power converters were heavy!

Trip couldn’t see the street signs, but then he recognized Dom’s Droids just down the block. Now he knew where he was. It was another ten or fifteen blocks to Uncle Craz’s. He’d never get there without being caught! What could he do?

Whistler and his gang were faster than he was, so he’d have to hide. Then, when they weren’t paying attention, he’d sneak back to Uncle Craz’s or call for help.

Trip saw a dark alley just across the street. It was filled with trash dumpsters and discarded items—plenty of things to hide behind. Trip knew he could easily climb over the wall at the end of the alley. Once Whistler lost track of him, he should be able to get away.

He darted across the street, dodging around slow-moving anti-grav cars. One of the cars grazed him and nearly knocked him to the ground, but Trip held his balance as he jumped up onto the walkway on the other side of the street.

Trip had to stop himself from falling and smashing the power converters. Trip steadied himself and stood up. He was just a few feet from the safety of the alleyway. Trip glanced back down the street.

Whistler was already at the street corner, searching the street. Trip had to hide—right now—or he’d be spotted. He tried to keep himself low and use the anti-grav cars and the people on the crowded walkway as cover.

Trip moved slowly, carefully. Whistler would be sure to spot any sudden movement. Trip heard his heart beating so loudly he was sure everyone could hear it, but no one seemed to notice him. Trip carefully slid towards the alley. Three steps, two, then one last step to the safety of the shadows! As he made the final step, Trip glanced back one last time.

Whistler hadn’t seen him. Trip hugged the building wall and slowly backed into the shadowed alley. He relaxed as he realized he’d made it. Finally, he was safe.

Trip nearly jumped out of his skin when his shoulder was grabbed, but he relaxed just a little when he saw who it was: Datz! Trip didn’t know much about him—after all, he’d only met him just yesterday at the diner—but he was a friendly face and Trip was in big trouble. Any second Whistler and his buddies might show up. Trip had to find help or a place to hide right now!

Datz was standing inside an open doorway, smiling. He rested his gloved hands on his hips. His energy pistol, strapped to his right thigh, gleamed as it reflected the sunlight streaming into the open doorway. Behind Datz, the inside of the building was hidden by shadows, but the building sure looked safer than being out in the street.

Trip tried to explain, but first he had to catch his breath. In between gasps of air, he explained, "Help me! Strange men … chasing me! Don’t … know why! Got … to hide … from them!"

Datz stepped back inside the building and flipped the light switch. It was a small storage room, with another door going deeper into the building directly across from the entrance where Trip stood. The room was filled with crates of all sizes, with stacks reaching to the ceiling. From the packages of food lying on the shelves, Trip figured this was the back room of a restaurant. Considering the dirt on the floor, it wasn’t someplace he’d want to eat. Still, a dirty place to hide was better than no place at all!

Trip glanced down the alley again. Whistler was nowhere to be seen. Trip stepped inside the storage room and closed the door behind him. Trip’s mind whirled. He spoke as quickly as the thoughts came to him.

"Am I safe here? I think those guys are criminals or something. They were threatening Uncle Craz yesterday."

After a few moments, Trip finally let himself relax. Datz looked pleased with himself.

Trip started to move and nearly fell as the exhaustion caught up with him. All the energy drained from his body. The power converters clinked loudly as he dropped his backpack to the floor. Datz reached out and held him steady.

Datz slowly guided Trip over to a small crate and helped him sit. Datz grabbed Trip’s backpack. Trip’s heart skipped a beat when he heard the power converters clink again.

Trip was dead-tired and just wanted to rest. The plastisteel crate wasn’t the most comfortable thing to sit on, but Trip felt he could fall asleep for years right now. Datz was still messing with the backpack, but Trip was too tired to argue.

Datz set the backpack down on the crate next to him and pulled out one of the silver power converters. He slipped off his left glove and ran his fingers up and down the smooth metal cylinder.

"So, this is what all the fuss is about. It’s heavier than I thought it would be."

Trip, half-asleep and only half-listening, wondered what Datz was talking about.

Trip asked, "Fuss? For who, Datz? And be careful. My uncle needs them for a ship he’s fixing."

"Trip, don’t be too concerned about it. It’s not anything important. The guys on my ship have been looking for some power converters."

Then Datz paused. He stared into space, his mind seemingly a million miles away. "Unfortunately, the one man who could help them—someone who used to help them and at one time wasn’t too different from them—turned his back on them. Does he think he can get away with that and act as if nothing happened? Does he think we’ll just walk away and forget?"

Trip was suddenly wide-awake, his heart pounding. What was Datz talking about? This sounded like trouble. Datz stared at the power converter, his voice trailing off, as if he was talking to himself instead of Trip.

"Imagine. People you used to trust with your life and then you turn them out into the cold. You’d think they’d be a little upset, maybe? Trip, what do you think?"

Datz gently slid the power converter back into the backpack, cinched the straps and moved the backpack to the floor. That was when Trip noticed the scar on Datz’s neck—small, hair-thin, barely two inches long.

When Datz looked up he had a smile on his face. Not a warm, friendly smile, but one that made a shiver roll down Trip’s spine.

"But that doesn’t matter now, Trip. Our problem is solved, kid, now that we have these," Datz said while patting Trip’s backpack.

Then Trip was certain. Datz was planning to steal the power converters! Trip couldn’t let this go, even though he felt too exhausted to move. Trip wondered what he should do. Should he make a run for it? How would he get the backpack away from Datz? Trip wondered if he would be fast enough to get out of here before Datz grabbed his energy pistol.

"Don’t try it. Don’t even think it, Trip. It won’t work. You’ll only get hurt."

Datz then slowly pulled off his right glove, revealing the same coiler tattoo that Whistler and the others had on their right hands. Datz was one of them! Trip was trapped. Datz reached down and pulled his energy pistol.

Trip had just a split-second and he tried to make the most of it. He leapt for the back door and pulled it open. Standing in the doorway was Slayton and one of the alien thugs who’d confronted Uncle Craz yesterday.

Trip tried to dash between them, but Slayton just shoved him back into the room. Slayton chuckled when Trip fell and slid backwards into the crates. The two stepped into the room and locked the door behind them. They pulled Trip to his feet.

The other door swung open and Whistler stepped into the room. He laughed—a high-pitched laugh so loud it almost hurt Trip’s ears—while the gill-pouches on his cheeks wheezed a high whistle.

Whistler said, "There’s our troublesome little friend. Good work, Datz. Diamond Black Joe will be very pleased to get both the power converters and the boy."

Then, Datz raised his energy pistol and pointed it at Trip. Trip’s heart pounded and he panicked. Trip knew he didn’t want to die, but what could he do? There was no escape.

For a second, Datz almost, almost, looked like he felt sorry for Trip, but then the cruel smile returned. He winked at Trip and said, "Sorry, kid. This is just business."

Trip saw a flash of green light and felt a surge of intense, burning heat. Then his world went black and his knees gave out….

When Trip woke up, all he could feel was the throbbing in his head. It felt like his head would burst apart as each pulse hammered against his skull. Tears welled in Trip’s eyes. Every sound—his breathing, his heart pounding, the rumble of the starship drives—was magnified a thousand times, all of it so loud that it was deafening. He couldn’t think. Trip wanted to bury his head, to curl up in a ball and scream at someone to turn it all off.

Then it hit him. The flash of light. The heat. Being shot. The rumble of the starship drives. Trip wondered, Where am I?

Trip calmed down enough to feel the vibration that shook his whole body. He felt himself being pressed back in an acceleration couch as the starship drives pushed on. It was a sound he’d heard a million times. In fact, he was so accustomed to it that most of the time he could identify a starship’s engines just by the sounds they made.

The motors sounded like they were Monoclars, probably 3VXs or 3VYs. They were old and cheap, but also very efficient and easily found in almost any scrapyard in the star cluster. The engines were ideally suited for short-range craft, particularly military ships.

Trip slowly opened his eyes. The lighting was low, the type typically used during space flight so pilots could read instrument panels and use visual reckoning to navigate by the stars. He was aboard a small shuttle. The ship had seats for about ten people plus the two pilots at the front of the ship. Trip was at the back of the ship. Through the forward viewports he saw stars.

Considering the circumstances, this wasn’t the thrill he expected his first flight to be. Maybe it had something to do with being kidnapped by a bunch of thugs.

"Glad to see you’re awake, Trip. From the look on your face, I bet you’ve never been stunned before. The headache will go away in a few minutes. And welcome to the club!"

"Diamond Black Joe’s pirate gang. Your destiny is in our hands. Be smart about this."

Trip craned his head around for a better look. He couldn’t move anything else since he was tightly strapped into the couch, with belts across his waist, legs, and shoulders, as well as restraints on his wrists. Trip tried to wriggle his hand out from under the restraints.

Behind Datz, Slayton and another human sat behind the shuttle’s controls. Off to Trip’s left, one of the aliens from Uncle Craz’s garage was lounging in an acceleration couch and playing with his energy pistol. Trip thought it looked like he was trying to realign the blast chamber. Trip could probably fix it in a few seconds, but he didn’t much feel like helping any of these guys. Besides, he didn’t want to let them know how much he knew. They probably assumed he was just a dumb kid who didn’t know how to do anything. He was better off to let them keep thinking that.

Whistler was towards the front of the shuttle, looming over Slayton and the other pilot, barking directions at them. Trip’s backpack sat on an acceleration couch next to Whistler.

Trip took a good look around the ship. The ship was definitely made by Monoclar. Seating for ten people meant the ship was probably a D-16 Courier shuttle. That would make sense—the 3VX engines weren’t original equipment, but they could easily be retrofitted to fit the shuttle’s energy conversion systems.

Trip noticed, in addition to the controls, an automated weapons console was off to the far right of the pilot stations. That wasn’t standard equipment; it was probably bought or stolen on the black market. The control panel could run almost any type of energy cannon, allowing a single pilot to fight and fly at the same time. Trip realized the panel had been fitted with controls for energy redirectors on the bottom of the unit.

Redirectors allowed people to mount high-energy weapons on ships with small reactors. The directors continuously drew power form the ship’s fusion reactor during normal flight and shunted it into banks of storage batteries. In combat, the redirectors controlled the flow of energy from the batteries into the weapons, sending just enough for peak performance but not so much that the weapons would blow out. In case of a massive power surge—something that could easily happen in a battle—the redirectors would blow out like circuit breakers instead of allowing the surge to blow out the ship’s weapons or, worse yet, funnel back into the ship’s power grid. That kind of a backlash could disable a ship, stranding it in space. A powerful enough surge could blow up the whole reactor, taking the rest of the ship with it.

If these guys had a power redirector, they probably had multi-pulse cannons, which were very powerful weapons for a ship this small. Trip looked behind him to the back wall and saw a gunner’s console on a retractable lift. That meant the weapon was concealed beneath the ship’s outer hull plates. It was probably also shielded against sensor scans since most law enforcement patrol ships would take a dim view of a "civilian" shuttle with this kind of military hardware. In combat, the hull plates would slide out of the way, the weapon would slide out into place and whoever went into combat against this "simple shuttle" was in for a nasty surprise as they got a mouthful of energy blasts.

These guys meant business! They could sneak up on a ship, appearing to be an ordinary small shuttle. Seconds later, this "innocent" shuttle could have its multi-pulse cannons out and firing while the target’s gunners scrambled just to get to their weapons. Under the right circumstances—if, for example, they caught a ship with its shields down and its gunners asleep at the controls—the battle would be over in two or three volleys, with the target ship disabled and begging for surrender.

A million questions raced through Trip’s mind. Why am I here? Why did you capture me? What’s going on?

The shuttle gently rocked as it pushed through the darkness of space. Trip realized it might be a long time before he saw home again.

Datz looked around, bored, while Whistler directed the pilots to take a new heading. From the fact that he couldn’t see Saronon, Karrison’s star, Trip assumed they were headed out-system for deep space.

"We ask the questions. Now, be quiet until we reach the Diamond Shadow. But, for now, quiet. For your own sake."

However, the damage was done. Trip saw Whistler look up. The alien had heard Trip.

Whistler stared at Trip and immediately stalked back to Trip’s chair. He wheezed and as he came close, Trip picked up the strong scent of onion mixed with cinnamon. Trip looked up into Whistler’s cold, red eyes. Trip looked away quickly, frightened.

Trip wanted to shut up, but he knew that giving no answer would be looked upon as defiance or disobedience. Whatever the punishment, it would be much worse if Whistler thought Trip was going to give him a hard time.

Whistler grabbed Trip’s collar. Trip felt Whistler’s rough skin rub his neck; it was like living sandpaper except that it had a slimy coating. Whistler pulled on the collar and shook him so hard he got dizzy. That didn’t help Trip’s pounding headache.

Whistler sneered at him, shook him around again for good measure and whispered in Trip’s ear, "Look, kid. We have the parts we need. We don’t need you. Understand?"

Trip didn’t dare to look at Whistler, but the alien grabbed his chin and turned his head to face him. Trip looked again into the red eyes and saw the black pupils pulsing with anger. The onion-cinnamon smell was overwhelming.

Whistler strapped himself into an acceleration couch before ordering the jump to lightspeed. With a sickening lurch, the ship seemed to pop "up" hard and quickly. Trip’s stomach tried to drop out of his body and through the bottom of the ship. Trip looked out the viewscreens as the stars disappeared, replaced with a swirling vortex of spinning colors—reds, greens, blues, golds—all spinning in a rainbow blend, constantly changing and shifting. They were at lightspeed!

While the ship felt like it was going almost the same speed as before the jump, Trip knew that they were now travelling at several times the speed of light. He wondered where they were going. Trip knew that a ship was impossible to track once it jumped to lightspeed so now it would be impossible for Uncle Craz to find him. Trip was on his own.

Trip always believed his first trip into lightspeed would be exciting and thrilling. It was the kind of moment you spent a lifetime looking forward to and savoring. He never thought it would be against his will, held prisoner by criminals who’d threatened to kill him if he didn’t do as he was told. Now he was racing out into the unknown, leaving behind Pennick’s Crossing, Uncle Craz and the only life he’d ever known.

Trip watched the swirling patterns of color as blues shifted to purples and greens, the golds to reds, browns to silvers. He saw patterns—a starship, a strange creature known as a squorion with two dozen squirming tentacles—form cloud-like out of the colors and then fade away as quickly as they appeared. Trip knew they were all illusions. His brain was just trying to make sense of the random color patterns. He was unable to turn away as the colors raced by.

He’d always heard stories from spacers about lightspeed. A few claimed to have seen "monsters," claiming they were creatures from other dimensions. Others seemed hypnotized by visions they saw. Some claimed they’d been granted divine insight and then started new religions. Inspired artists tried to recreate these images through holo-painting. Some were never the same again: They always had that far-away look in their eyes and they lived just to watch the colors and images of lightspeed, seemingly bored with everything else in life. A few went flat-out insane.

Now that he’d seen the lightspeed effect in person, he finally understood. He felt the call of the stars, sensed the lure of space and adventure. Now it was stronger than ever before.

A few minutes later, Trip felt another lurch as the shuttle dropped back to regular space. Trip looked around anxiously while he waited for his stomach to slide down from the back of his mouth back to where it belonged.

Trip looked out through the viewport and saw Saronon, except now it was simply a very bright star, the brightest of the thousands he could see. It was far from the huge glowing orb he was used to seeing looming in the sky every day. From here, Saronon looked unexceptional, average, just like all the other stars.

Whistler joined in. "And you’ll be a lot further from home soon, Trip. Things will get a lot worse before long, little human child."

Trip felt his stomach slide around some more as the ship banked on its side. From the viewport, the stars seemed to slide to the right as the ship changed directions. Saronon slid out of view. As the shuttle flew towards deep space, Trip became aware of a small red dot. It steadily grew larger and larger. It wasn’t a star.

Within moments, the object slowly took on the shape of a long box, with a large, bulging circular stub at the front. Trip noticed a long stream of red-hot gasses jetting out of the other end. At the center of the box was what looked vaguely like a short, squat tower. Trip was looking at a starship. It was a big one, too.

The shuttle curled around towards the back of the ship. Datz had earlier called it the Diamond Shadow. The ship must have had a dozen engines: The engines, plus their reactors, energy cells, and lightspeed drive units probably filled the last third of the ship with machinery. With that many engines, the ship must be fast, but considering that it was a large vessel, it still probably was not very maneuverable. It was hard to turn that much mass quickly, no matter how many drive units you crammed into a ship’s hull.

Trip knew the Diamond Shadow’s design from holos he’d studied. It was a Tratellian Pocket Cruiser, designed for combat. The hull could take a lot of punishment, while it had enough weapons bays to be fairly dangerous. The large power generators were military grade and up to the challenge of powering several banks of combat lasers. The Tratellian Pocket Cruiser was supposedly available only to planetary governments, but Trip also knew about the black market. A few Steds in the right pockets and a ship in transit could be "lost" and diverted to interested buyers far from the reach of the law. Or, the pirates might have just captured it in combat and refitted it for their own needs.

The rounded front of the Diamond Shadow probably housed primary weapons and shielding systems. This area normally housed primary and backup power generators, too.

The ship probably also had sophisticated sensors. A ship this big couldn’t hide from other vessels by using baffling systems. Since it obviously was a pirate ship, it must have used its sensors to detect incoming vessels at a great distance. With enough warning, the Diamond Shadow would have time to jump to lightspeed and get away if it detected a superior enemy force. If the sensors detected suitable targets, the ship could power up its engines and race into combat. Trip thought the paint job—blood red with black trim—was a nice touch. It was ominous and fairly difficult to spot from a distance.

The shuttle eased below the Diamond Shadow and angled towards its large, belly landing bay. As the shuttle moved in close to the pirate ship, Trip spotted a least half a dozen double laser turrets protecting the belly section. That was a lot of weaponry for a ship this size. Trip guessed that it would mean the cruiser could have over two dozen, maybe even three dozen multi-pulse cannon turrets. It was obvious that these pirates expected to be in a lot of battles.

As the shuttle slowed and eased into the landing bay, a pair of heavily armed assault shuttles moved in alongside. The three ships slowly rose up into the pirate ship’s cavernous belly bay. Trip spotted a dozen fighters and half that number of assault shuttles on the deck. Many of the shuttles showed heavy battle damage and were partially disassembled, obviously waiting for repairs.

As the shuttle settled down on the landing deck and Trip studied the damaged ships, he now knew why the pirates were so desperate to get their hands on those power converters. Datz released Trip’s binders.

The next few minutes were a bewildering fog as Trip half-marched and was half-pushed by Datz and Whistler out onto the landing deck and onto an elevator. The lift rocketed up for a minute. Then, Trip was guided through a maze of dimly lit corridors. Along the way, he saw perhaps two dozen people—human, Mirastreens, Aryos and half a dozen species he didn’t recognize—all dressed in the same black leather battle vests with white tunics. All of them were armed with energy pistols or other nasty-looking weapons.

Trip struggled to get accustomed to the constant tremors that rippled up from the lightspeed engines and vibrated throughout the entire ship. At first, each of Trip’s steps was a little bit off kilter, almost as if he was dizzy, but Trip’s sense of balance soon adjusted and he gained his "space legs."

One thing that bothered Trip were the odors. Each ship had its own smell, the result of air that’s been breathed, exhaled, recycled and scrubbed a thousand times before it’s exchanged for fresh air on a planet. There was no way to be polite: This ship smelled! It smelled of sweat, dirt and grime.

But there was something else. The Diamond Shadow felt like a place where hope had been eradicated a long time ago. To Trip if felt like death lurked here, hiding in the darkness.

Trip was completely lost by the time he was shoved past a pair of guards and into yet another turbolift. The ride lasted just a few seconds and the doors slid open. Ahead was a short corridor and an armored power door. The door wasn’t labeled, but judging by the armed guards standing at each side, Trip guessed this wasn’t the ship’s laundry.

Trip assumed he was being taken to the bridge. The power door was gouged with blast marks from prior battles. This door could protect the bridge if other sections of the ship were exposed to vacuum. But the armored door had another purpose, as well. If enemy troops boarded the ship, they’d have a long, hard fight and they’d somehow have to get through this door to seize the bridge. Short of carrying fusion cutters or heavy-duty explosive charges, that door would delay them for several minutes. That would be long enough for reinforcements to come up from behind or for the bridge crew to flood this corridor with poison gas. In a desperate situation, the bridge crew could expose the corridor to open space and hope the enemy troops were sucked into the void by the explosive decompression. It was a good set-up for stopping invading troops. Or, Trip thought as he considered the motley types he’d seen here, stopping a mutiny.

The guard on the left was a human who hadn’t shaved in several days. As Trip got closer, he realized that he seemed to bathe only after shaving.

The guard on the right side was a Tavreen, over seven feet tall, well-muscled and with deep blue scales for skin. As Trip came closer, the Tavreen tensed and dropped his right hand to his energy pistol, ready for a fight.

Grick opened the power door. The two halves slid apart, one half rolling up into the ceiling and the other half down into the floor. Beyond was a room bathed in deep blue light. The room was quiet, but Trip could see several people inside, all intensely concentrating on their work.

Grick waved them in with his left hand, but Trip noticed that his other hand still rolled along the energy pistol’s grip. As Trip moved into the bridge, Grick quietly sneered, impatiently tapping his weapon. The human guard seemed not to care much either way, although his hand moved to his energy pistol as well, perhaps as much by reflex as anything else. The guards let Trip, Whistler and Datz pass without another word.

Trip, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, was steered into the room by Datz. The rumble from the ship’s drives was so magnified here that Trip’s teeth rattled. It was like all the power of the universe was concentrated in this small room.

Trip saw several circular clusters of computer workstations sunk into the floor. Small holograms danced in front of the crew members, showing clusters of stars and nearby planets. Four of the workstations had just a single person handling the bank of computers, their hands racing across the touch-screens, precise and perfect in their movements. Trip saw datacables that plugged into the operators’ neck cyberjacks and snaked to the computer consoles.

Trip shuddered. Most people resisted the desire to merge themselves with the machines they worked with. By being hooked directly into the computers with a cyberjack system, the operators could run the ship very efficiently, but it was also risky. A computer overload could send a power surge rushing directly into an operator, causing severe injuries or death.

The largest computer cluster, towards the front center of the room, completely encircled three crewmen. They sat seated back to back, like the three points of a triangle. In front of this station was a massive hologram projector that now showed a full-color display of Karrison.

Viewports ringed the room on all sides. Trip noticed grooves in both the floor and ceiling; he assumed they held interior armor plates that slid over the viewports during battle. Of course, the viewports themselves were armored, but their clear composite materials weren’t as durable as regular armor plating. Trip knew there were probably also armor plates on the space side of the viewports as well.

Out of one viewport, Trip saw a brief flash of yellow, like a flashbulb popping. Some small object, perhaps a tiny space pebble, must have come close to the viewports and grazed its combat energy screens. No doubt the pebble had been instantly incinerated in the flash of light.

The viewports offered a panoramic view of the pirate ship and open space. The Diamond Shadow’s evil-looking red hull spread out in all directions beneath the bridge tower. Beyond the ship, the stars filled the sky, thousands and thousands of them. It was beautiful.

Trip didn’t realize he’d reached his hands out toward the viewports and he’d begun moving towards them, mesmerized, until a new voice spoke.

"It’s magnificent. Being on the bridge, seeing all those stars. This is my favorite place in the whole universe."

The voice was deep, rumbling, like the roar of the ship’s engines. It was like the voice came from the heart of the ship itself. Trip looked back into the bridge’s darkness and saw a man-shape lower itself from an elevated chair. The speaker moved out of the shadows to join Trip at the viewport.

The speaker was a human. Datz backed clear, almost as if he was afraid. When the man came into the light, Trip saw that he looked average in many ways. He was handsome but not overly so. He was solidly built, with dark hair and chocolate brown eyes. He wore the typical garb of other members of the crew, but it was his presence that captured Trip’s attention. He seemed stronger and more confident than the other members of the crew. Strapped low around his right thigh, in a quickdraw holster, was an energy pistol with a silver stock and barrel. Clipped to his belt were three small pouches, as well as what looked like a leather case for holding some kind of communications signaler, like an oversize transcomm unit.

The mysterious man stepped towards Trip. Instantly Trip knew this man was a natural leader. He was the kind of man that others willingly and eagerly followed to their fortunes—or their graves. He projected confidence, even arrogance, because he was so sure of himself. But something about him didn’t feel right. A voice in the back of Trip’s head warned him not to trust him.

The man stepped next to Trip, too close for comfort. Then he reached out and touched the viewport. Another dust particle smacked into the energy screens and a flash of yellow highlighted the man’s handsome face.

"It’s beautiful. Beautiful and cruel at the same time—like nature," he said.

He turned to Trip and eyed him carefully. His expression was neutral, giving away nothing. Trip heard a soft whirring and realized that one of the man’s eyes was cybernetic, but it was impossible to tell which because the replacement was so lifelike. Then the man smiled a warm, friendly smile.

"That’s right, my name’s Trip. Benjamin Trippany. I’m Craz’s nephew. I’ve lived with him for as long as I can remember."

The man nodded. He turned back to the viewport and gazed out longingly for several moments, silent. He turned back to Trip, but this time the friendly smile was gone. The eyes were no longer handsome and captivating, but now were cruel and heartless. They were the eyes of a ruthless man who let nothing stand in the way of what he wanted.

He opened his hand, palm up and gestured out towards the viewport with a wave, like he was trying to hold all the cosmos in his palm.

He reached out and held Trip’s chin. Trip didn’t dare to look away from those brown eyes as they bored into him.

"You have the will to look a man in the eyes, even one that might be a danger to you. That’s good. It shows you have courage."

"This really isn’t your fault. It’s because your Uncle Craz wouldn’t help me." Diamond Black Joe’s voice slowed. He pulled his hand away and clenched his fist as if squashing a bug, "And no one, no one refuses me!"

Diamond Black Joe turned to look out the viewport again, his gaze fixed on some distant point far away. Trip felt his stomach churning with anxiety. He could sense anger welling up inside the man standing next to him.

"You would think he might help me considering that we have a history together," Diamond Black Joe said. "But instead he turned his back on me."

Diamond Black Joe breathed deeply and relaxed. His shoulders relaxed. He smiled at Trip as if they were the best of friends and Trip had just arrived to stay for a week’s vacation.

Diamond Black Joe walked back to his elevated command seat, climbed up the steps and sat down. From his seat, he loomed over the entire room, with a clear view of all that was going on. He was unquestioningly the voice of authority, as powerful and arbitrary as the cruel gods of ancient myths. Here, sitting five feet above deck level, he could make even the tallest, strongest man feel weak and insignificant. It was clear this was a position that Diamond Black Joe was accustomed to.

Trip moved slowly and respectfully to stand at the base of the chair. He craned his neck to look up into Joe’s eyes, wondering where this was all leading.

"This is one of the finest, deadliest combat vessels in the Trishellian Frontier. I expect a great deal of my crew. Success is richly rewarded, with a share of all spoils, the thrill of victory, and the knowledge that one has fulfilled one’s potential and served a greater power. Failure is penalized, swiftly and irreversibly, with death."

Trip struggled and finally built up his courage. "I’d really like to go home, sir."

Diamond Black Joe paused before answering, "You’ll soon learn that what we want in life is often irrelevant. You are on my ship now."

"One of the rules on my ship, and it’s one you need to learn, is that I do not like being interrupted. I’ll overlook this bit of rudeness. But I expect you to learn, and learn quickly," Diamond Black Joe explained as if addressing a dull-witted child.

"Trip, after our last raid, some of our fighters and assault shuttles were damaged. Your Uncle Craz, thanks to you, supplied the parts we needed to repair the shuttles—"

Diamond Black Joe sighed, took another deep breath and looked down to the ground. His eyes rolled back as if he was ready to lash out in anger, but instead he was silent. He returned his gaze to Trip. He looked deadly serious.

Datz grabbed Trip by the arm. Trip’s mind raced as he tried to figure out how to talk his way out of this. Falling to his knees and begging for mercy seemed like the best option.

Datz suddenly started laughing and Diamond Black Joe joined him, waving his finger back and forth at Trip, as if he was scolding him.

Datz released Trip’s arm, slapped him once on the shoulder, and whispered, "Don’t get out of line, kid."

"However, I warned you before not to interrupt me," Diamond Black Joe said. "I’m in a charitable mood, but that could change at any minute. When it came to the issue of repairing our ships, we would have preferred your Uncle Craz’s fine craftsmanship. You know, he is really very, very good. I hope you learned a lot from him while you worked there?"

Trip stood silently. After a few seconds, he glanced at Datz. Was he supposed to talk now? Diamond Black Joe nodded.

"Uncle Craz taught me a lot. He says I’m good with the wrenches, that I’ve got the gift. You know, like him, to hear what’s wrong with a ship. But—"

"That’s good. Very good. That means you know what to look for. Now, as you were saying …."

"But what I really want to do is be a pilot. Like a freighter pilot. See the stars, maybe even explore a little."

"A pilot, you say? Well, they all want to be pilots when they’re young. But only a very few have the skills—the instincts that you are either born with or you will never have—to be a pilot. You have to feel it in your gut and know what your ship is doing even before the instruments can you tell you if something’s wrong. You have to be able to sense trouble before it happens. You need to be able to anticipate that surprise attack, that uncharted asteroid and even that customs ship that’s ready to board you and look for the contraband you’ve got hidden in the shielded cargo compartments. You don’t expect to make a decent living by doing it all legally, do you?"

"That’s because you’re too young to know any better. Trust me, there’s no money in hauling grain or robot components or any of that other garbage. You’ll be able to pay the bills, barely, and eke out a grim living, and someday you’ll have a run of bad luck. You’ll go broke and lose your ship and everything else you’ve ever worked for. To make a good living you’ll have to turn to other things. Like smuggling."

Diamond Black Joe laughed. "That’s a good enough answer for now. Hear me out Trip. Hauling black market goods is simple. Don’t ask where they came from, just pick them up when you’re supposed to, and deliver them on time. Don’t ask too many questions. At the end of the run, pick up the fat envelope stuffed with Steds—more than some people make in an entire year—and you can earn it in a few days. No one gets hurt. You didn’t steal anything. Unless someone tells you otherwise, you have every reason to believe it’s all perfectly legal. You’ve done nothing wrong yet you’re now a wealthy young man. That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?"

Diamond Black Joe was making sense, but something about it felt all wrong. Or, grimy, like the feeling you get after crawling around engine ducts all day and you have to take a sonic shower to shake off that feeling of being dirty inside and out.

Of course, Diamond Black Joe had just joked about dumping him out an airlock. It would be unwise to argue with his host. Trip gave Diamond Black Joe the answer he wanted.

Diamond Black Joe jumped down from the chair, put his hands on Trip’s shoulders and stared into his eyes, laughing.

Trip smiled and laughed back as Joe shook him and grinned. Trip was confused by it all. Why he was here? Where was this all leading?

Diamond Black Joe steered Trip to the viewport and pushed him till his nose was just an inch from the cold, clear window. The pirate captain leaned in close, pointing out to the stars with his index finger.

"Look out at the stars. Thousands spread out before you. And millions, billions more that we cannot see. It is more than open space you are staring at. It is opportunity."

"So now, young Trip, I’m going to let you know how you fit into the plan. We brought you here because of your Uncle Craz. He showed me a complete lack of respect—he was downright rude to Slayton and Whistler—so we brought you on board. Just think of it as a constant reminder to your Uncle Craz that he insulted me. I don’t take insults well. Do I, Datz?"

"No, sir. Why, the last time someone insulted you, we—well, if I remember right, they’re still picking pieces of him out of the asteroid field at—"

"That’s enough, Datz. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make, Trip, is that I’m perfectly reasonable under most circumstances. I just have a bad temper, but that’s not really my fault. It must have had something to do with my upbringing or something that happened to me when I was a child. I’m not really responsible for what I do. It’s all repressed anger for things in my past. Not my fault. At least, that’s what the psych evaluators say! Now, where was I, Trip?"

"Oh, yes, the opportunity. Well, you are a highly skilled and motivated young man. Wants to be a pilot! The best in the stars! Well, you can be all that. We offer opportunities for those with skills. You have the potential to earn considerable wealth. Someday, you might even be a pilot for us. So, you have a choice. You can join our little family …."

The silence hung in the air and Trip asked even though he didn’t really want to know the answer.

"Oh, Trip, I thought you would have already figured that out by now. You can join us—or we dump you out the airlock and watch you die in the vacuum of space."

Join the pirates or be dumped out the airlock. Trip didn’t think it was much of a choice.

"Datz, I’ll put you in charge of our newest crewmember. Trip, I knew you’d see things my way. Now, there’s just one little thing we have to take care of."

Suddenly Trip realized that Datz, Whistler and a pair of other crewmembers had surrounded him. They grabbed him by the arms and held him tight before he had a chance to wriggle away. Someone pulled his right arm out straight.

Whistler warned him, "Hold still, kid. It’s time for you to become one of us."

Diamond Black Joe opened one of the pouches on his belt and pulled out a small wand with a needle-tip point. He pressed a control stud and a series of lights on the wand lit up. The needle-tip glowed red.

Trip realized that the wand was a laser etcher, a tool of artists and craftsmen. It was normally used for cutting patterns in glass, ceramics and plastics, where pinpoint accuracy was essential. Colors could be set into the grooves carved out by the etcher; Trip had seen some magnificent works of art that had been created with this type of tool.

Whistler eagerly grabbed the etcher and twisted a knob to tighten the beam. Then, Whistler grabbed Trip’s right arm and twisted until he could see the back of Trip’s hand.

Whistler wheezed, "Now don’t twitch or we’ll have to grow you a skin patch and redo the tattoo."

Trip closed his eyes. Whistler lowered the etcher’s tip to his hand. Trip winced, hoping it wouldn’t hurt. Then he felt a thousand pinpricks crawling over the back of his hand, like miniature insect feet crawling back and forth. It itched so badly that Trip had all he could do not to pull his hand away. Trip tried not to notice the faint burning smell that drifted through the air.

After a few moments, the pinpricks stopped and Whistler dappled a clear, soothing gel on his hand. Instantly the itching went away.

Trip opened his eyes and studied his right hand. He saw the same tattoo—the coiler wrapped around a stellar diamond—that was on all of the other pirates’ hands. The image was perfect, almost a work of art. And now Trip was marked as one of them.

Diamond Black Joe put the laser etcher back into its pouch. Trip felt all the tension rush out of his body. Finally, he might be safe. Then he realized that the pirates had not released their grip on him.

Diamond Black Joe reached into another pouch on his belt, opened it slowly, and pulled out a spray hypo. Normally used by doctors to inject medicines, the spray hypo was painless. All the patient felt was a rush of cool air and the medicine was in the bloodstream.

Diamond Black Joe opened the top of the spray hypo and pulled a small vial of gold liquid out of the belt pouch. He poured two, then three drops of the solution into the hypo’s storage chamber. Diamond Black Joe flipped the hypo’s power switch, glanced at the readout screen and muttered to himself, "Good, we’re ready for the final part of the initiation."

"I assure you, this is not painful. All of my crewmembers have this. It’s a kind of insurance."

Diamond Black Joe stepped up to Trip, who tried to squirm away but was held tight by the others. Diamond Black Joe roughly pushed Trip’s head down and to the right. There was a cool puff of air on the back of his neck. After the shot, a dull ache lingered.

The pirates released Trip. He pulled free, rubbing the sore spot on his neck. Trip knew there was a scar on Datz’s neck at almost exactly the same spot. Looking quickly at another crewmember, Trip saw the same scar.

"Yes, it will leave a small scar, barely noticeable," Diamond Black Joe said. He put the hypo back into its pouch and pulled a small, handheld microcomputer from the case on his belt. He punched a few keys before saying, "Good. It’s working perfectly."

"It’s a small, microscopic transmitter. Now I can track you anywhere on this ship. I will always know where you are if I’m looking for you. Every member of the crew has one."

"Oh, one thing," Diamond Black Joe added. "The transmitter is for more than just tracking you. It is connected to a small capsule no bigger than an eyelash. If I’m unhappy with you, all I have to do is enter the transmitter’s identicode and type in a special command. That activates the transmitter and shatters the capsule."

"There are any number of things that could be in that capsule, aren’t there Trip?"

"Oh, Trip, ignorance is not bliss. Your life could depend on it. You see, inside the capsule is a potent neurotoxin. When the capsule is broken, it releases the poison directly into your bloodstream."

As he spoke, Diamond Black Joe leaned in close to Trip’s face, speaking more and more slowly and softly with each word, until his voice was barely a whisper.

"At first, you’ll feel nothing. Fifteen seconds later you’ll start to feel lightheaded, as if you stood up too quickly. Your fingers and toes will start to tingle.

"After thirty seconds, your arms and legs will be numb. You’ll feel your heart start to pound rapidly as your body begins to realize that it is dying.

"Another thirty seconds and you’ll lose all control over your voluntary muscles, collapsing to the floor.

"Fifteen seconds more and you’ll be struggling for breath. Shortly thereafter, you will black out. Two minutes after the capsule shatters, you will be dead. It will all be quite painless, even peaceful, but the end is swift and certain. Inescapable. Death."

Diamond Black Joe’s voice trailed off and he backed away, an evil smirk on his face. Trip’s life was in the hands of a madman.

"Trip, this may sound harsh, even merciless, but it is fair. All members of my crew have this implant. All work—and prosper—under the same rules. This has helped me develop a fiercely loyal and highly skilled crew. Those capsules have helped me squelch mutinies and discretely eliminate troublemakers who are bad for morale. And, as I said, there is vast opportunity for wealth here. All you need to do is follow the rules and do as you are told. It’s simple. Do you understand?"

Trip understood all too well. He’d never even thought about death before. But now there was the very real possibility that he could die because of the slightest mistake or misunderstanding. Then Trip looked at Whistler, who’d done nothing but threaten and bully him since their first meeting. A chill crawled down his spine. Trip realized that he might die if he angered one of his shipmates and they lied to Diamond Black Joe just to be rid of him.

Trip felt like curling up into a small ball and hiding. But that would do no good.

"Now, you’re one of us, Trip. Your Uncle Craz would be proud!" Diamond Black Joe said. Then he turned to Datz. "He’s your responsibility now. Keep him out of trouble, will you?"

"Good. Good. Show him to his bunk and get him settled. Some proper clothes would help. But don’t waste too much time. He has deep space training in one hour."

Over the next few minutes, Datz guided Trip through the Diamond Shadow’s dark, cramped and foul-smelling corridors. Trip found himself more confused than ever: each deck looked virtually identical and there were no deck numbers on the corridor walls. Trip began to think that the homing beacon in his neck might be useful after all. If he got lost, at least they’d be able to track him down. He’d be able to call with his transcomm and ask for directions!

Trip wondered what kind of a warrior he’d make if he couldn’t find his way around his own ship!

Datz guided him down a corridor, then stopped and pointed towards a short, dark corridor. At the end were three small, identical doors, each barely large enough to crawl through. Each door was labeled, "Escape Pod."

Datz explained, "There are escape pod bays all over the ship. Enough for the crew—most of us, anyway. Each pod has room for six people. You never, ever launch until Diamond Black Joe gives us the order to abandon ship."

Trip noticed that the corridor looked darker than the rest of the ship. He ran the tip of his shoe across the gray floor plating and left a trail in the dust.

As Datz walked away, he added, "We’ve never abandoned ship. Diamond Black Joe would rather die—would rather have us all die—than surrender."

"Hurry up, little pirate," Datz taunted, laughing at him. "You don’t want to be caught alone in these dark corridors. You never know who—or what—might be lurking in the shadows."

Trip just nodded and went to step into the lift, but he stopped as he heard a scratch, scratch, scratch noise above him. It sounded like something raking across metal. Trip looked up and felt a warm breeze of freshly recycled air smelling of sweaty clothes and someone who hadn’t brushed their teeth in a week coming down from a heating vent. Trip hoped he’d get to the point where he didn’t notice how this ship smelled. After a few seconds he heard more scratching sounds.

After Trip got onboard, the lift started, rocking gently back and forth as it rolled down into the ship.

"That was just the drannets. They’re all through the ship. They use the heating ducts for nests. They’ve been on the Diamond Shadow since before I got here. We ignore them mostly. Except when the crew gets bored and starts using them for target practice. They’re scared of us. Don’t worry, they’ll leave you alone."

As the turbolift eased to a stop, Datz led Trip through still more corridors. Trip was thoroughly lost, but he realized they’d entered a sleeping area. He saw several crewmembers, out of uniform, wandering the hallways and lounging in small side rooms. As he passed one room, Trip heard three pirates singing. They’d turned a familiar childhood tune into a bawdy ballad about the dancing girls on Thrembus Outpost. The words would have made his teacher blush.

Datz led Trip to a barracks room with six rows of bunks, each row stacked three high. On the far wall was a row of lockers. To the side, at the front of the room, Datz unlocked a door leading into a private room. It had a bed and a desk with a computer and holo terminal. In the back of the room was a shelving unit with an entertainment console.

Datz waved to the back of the barracks, saying, "Yours is the fourth row, bottom bunk. Most of the guys in this room are on duty right now, but they’ll be back later. Get settled while I find you a locker."

Trip found his bed and lay down on it. It was hard and lumpy. He couldn’t believe he was expected to sleep on this thing!

He heard Datz rifling through his desk as the clink, clink of too many pieces of plastic being shoved around too small a drawer echoed through the room. Then Datz spoke softly, too himself. "Ah, here we go. This will do."

Datz walked into the barracks room, tossing Trip a small, plastic card. He caught it and saw there was a small metal strip on the back.

"It’s the identicard for your locker. Number eight. You can keep your personal belongings there …." Datz paused for a second, then added, "When you get some."

Datz explained, "Just like everything else, quarters are allocated based on merit. Right now, you’re in with the newest, youngest crewmembers. You’ll be rooming with cooks, maintenance staff, basically non-essential crewmembers. Most people don’t stay here long. Either they move up or they get moved out. Prove yourself and you’ll get a bigger locker. Eventually you may get a private room with a couple of other crewmen. Now, let’s get you some clothes."

Datz went to the door in the back of the room and opened it. It was a disheveled closet with several racks of clothing. The shelves were stuffed with boxes although it looked like the closet was used like a trash bin, too. Datz rifled through the racks, muttering to himself, "No, too big," and "That looks like it’s about to fall apart," before presenting Trip with three changes of clothing.

Like the other crewmembers, the pants and shirts didn’t quite match. Datz just said, "This will do. Go get ready."

Trip placed the spare clothes in his locker, which he noted hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned out. The locker bottom had a layer of food wrappers, a couple of betting chips no doubt used in shipboard games of chance and—ugh!—crumbs from crackers and cookies. The locker smelled like rotten fruit. No wonder the ship was infested with vermin!

Datz showed Trip to the changing room. A few minutes later, Trip emerged dressed as a pirate. He stowed his old clothes in his locker. The new shirt was too tight around the shoulders and the pants were too long. The whole outfit itched.

Trip wanted to take a shower to wash away the feeling of little bugs crawling all over his skin, but he knew it would come back as soon as he put the clothes back on. Instead, he just told himself to get used to it.

Datz looked him up and down. "Not the best, but it’ll do. We don’t have much call for clothes in your size. Normally anyone your size isn’t much use so we just sell them off."

"Trip, this is your first time out as part of the crew. Diamond Black Joe wasn’t kidding. Get him mad, make a big mistake and …."

Datz made a motion as if he was punching buttons on Diamond Black Joe’s remote controller.

Datz took just four or five steps when he stopped and said, "Wait a second. Forgot my transcomm! Stay here and I’ll be back in a second."

Datz moved back towards his room. Down the hall, Trip saw some rough-looking characters. As the newest—and probably smallest—crewmember, Trip knew he might as well be wearing a flashing sign that said, "Defenseless kid! Push me around!"

A loud crash and screams of pain—followed by hoots of laughter and cheers from a chorus of human and alien voices—echoed from down the hall. Trip muttered, "Uh, Datz, I think I’ll stick close to you."

Datz didn’t pay any attention and just walked back to his room. Datz bent down over the security lock and Trip realized he had a chance. Trying to look casual—and not like he was watching—Trip peered over as Datz entered his identity code in the lock’s keypad. One, two, three—eventually ten numbers in all—and the door slid aside. Trip had the security code committed to memory. He didn’t know now what he’d use it for, but sometime it might come in handy.

Trip wasn’t really hungry but he knew he should eat something. He also might learn more about how to get around the ship.

Datz switched from being a bully to acting like he wanted to be Trip’s best friend so quickly that Trip didn’t know what to make of him! Could he be trusted? Was he as desperate to get away as Trip was? Or would he abandon Trip when he needed him most?

Trip stopped himself. No matter how friendly Datz was, he was a pirate through and through. There was no trusting him. He was the one who lured Trip into the trap that got him captured. Of course, maybe Datz was just following orders and didn’t have any choice. It was all so confusing and frightening! What could he do?

As if reading his mind—maybe Datz just saw the look of confusion on his face—he put his hand on Trip’s shoulder to steady him.

"Trip, you’ve been through a lot, but you’ll adjust. You’ll do just fine. And what Diamond Black Joe said is true. Once you’ve earned some trust and respect, you’ll find the money is good—better than anything you’ll get repairing starships in your uncle’s grimy old repair bay. We did you a favor by bringing you here. While you’re new, keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way. In time, you’ll find your place here."

A few minutes later, Datz escorted Trip into the ship’s galley. The room was almost dark, with just a few round tables. There were probably two dozen crewmembers in the room and it felt crowded. A thick haze of smoke hung in the air. Trip spotted thick, smelly Jimantian cigsticks, Phloleam water-pipes and he smelled the cherry of aromatic Wat-burners.

As Trip and Datz walked in, the room fell silent. Chips from card games rolled on tables and crewmembers lowered their forks as everyone sized up the new arrivals. Trip heard the soft wheeze of Whistler’s breathing. He spotted the yellow-skinned alien and his fluttering breath-flaps in the back of the room.

Trip followed Datz to the food stations, but he felt Whistler’s stare drilling into his back. As Trip looked over his choices—steaming, foul-smelling green slop or steaming, foul-smelling orange slop—he knew Whistler was studying him, perhaps planning what he’d do to him when no one was around. Trip knew somehow, someday, Whistler would corner him. He tried to shake off the thought.

"Datz to Space Cadet Trip. Take the orange. Never take the green if you don’t have to."

Datz grabbed a couple of biscuits, wrapped two more in a napkin and slipped them into his pockets, and picked a trellberry-flavored nutrient drink pouch.

"No one knows what this stuff is except for the cooks. And you don’t see them eating it, do you? Near as we can tell, the orange has prond in it—we think. The green stuff is just plain nasty."

Trip grabbed his biscuits and a drink packet and followed Datz through the maze of tables. He stepped carefully between the chairs. It was a tight fit and he didn’t want to bump any of the crewmembers. Trip thought it best to follow Datz’s advice and keep a low profile.

Trip was relieved that Datz didn’t sit anywhere near Whistler, although there were two others at the table he’d picked. Trip took the last remaining seat while Datz shoveled some orange glop into his mouth. Between mouthfuls, Datz explained, "New kid’s name is Trip. He’s a mechanic and wants to be a pilot. Trip, this is Blaze and Donnigal."

Both of them nodded. Before Trip could take his first bite, Blaze pointed his fork at Trip, saying, "A pilot, huh? A lot of competition for those spots, kid! You’ll have to get through a lot of people before your fanny ends up in a fighter."

Trip winced. He knew he sounded like a scared kid. Trip looked down, took his first bite and realized that the "orange" did taste like prond. It wasn’t bad. A little chewy, but the flavor was good.

Blaze broke out laughing. "Someday is for sissies, kid. Either you want to be a pilot or you don’t. And if you want to be one, don’t be a coward about it."

Trip looked at Datz for encouragement, but Datz just looked on, trying to hold back a grin. Trip was on his own.

Trip downed another bite of food, watching Blaze carefully. A humanoid with light green skin and gray streaks in his thick blue-green hair, Trip thought Blaze was a Freystrellian. Blaze was probably at least as old as Diamond Black Joe. Coarse, jagged scar tissue ran across the whole right side of his face. When Blaze spoke, the right side of his face seemed slack. His right eye never blinked. The right side of his mouth barely moved. When Blaze grinned, nothing on the right side moved. It looked downright scary. The paralysis must be some kind of nerve damage. It could have been caused by anything: Nerve gas, battle injuries, perhaps even some sort of alien microbe. Trip figured that decontamination procedures probably weren’t a high priority on this ship.

"Kid, you want to be a pilot, you’ve got to earn it. See these scars?" Blaze pointed at his face and Trip saw that he was missing two fingers. He had vicious looking wounds on his hand.

"These scars—I got them fourteen years ago. Chemical burns seared away half my flight suit. The chemicals worked up under my helmet. Then my engines died and the cockpit depressurized. My ship floated dead in space for three hours. This—" he said, running his hand along the scar tissue, "was the best reconstruction the medics could do."

"That’s how I got the name ‘Blaze.’ So when some kid who’s barely out of diapers says he wants to come in and be a pilot—after all the sacrifices I made—to replace me—"

Datz and Donnigal snickered. Datz whispered under his breath, just loud enough so Trip could hear. "Bad move!"

Without having to look around, Trip knew all eyes in the room were on him. Trip wanted to defend himself but his resolve wilted. He looked at Datz, silently pleading for help, but Datz sat back, uninvolved. Then Trip realized that Datz had deliberately set him up! Trip just sat there while Blaze roared at him.

"You don’t just get your way when you sign on with the Diamond Shadow. You have to work your way up. But I’m not going to stand aside for you. You’re a threat to me and you won’t move me out of the way! If you want my seat, I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you under my foot."

Trip sat in stunned silence. Everyone watched to see how he would handle himself.

Finally, between bites, Trip said softly, "I’m just going to do my job, that’s all."

Blaze sat silently, then smiled his frightening left-sided smile. He put his fork down and stared at Trip with his good left eye. "You do that. Do your job."

Trip finished his meal in uncomfortable silence. Around him, conversations resumed as the crewmembers realized—most likely with disappointment—that there would be no fight.

After a few moments, Blaze and Donnigal left, leaving just Datz and Trip at the table. Soon the argument between Blaze and the new kid was forgotten as the room filled with the sounds of conversation and the clatter of chips and Steds being won and lost in card games.

As Trip ate—an act of routine, not because he was hungry—he remembered how much he didn’t belong here. But what could he do? If he tried to escape, he’d die. The situation was hopeless.

As he pushed his final bite around the tray with his fork, he sensed someone coming up behind him. He felt a shove on his shoulder and heard the wheezing of breath-gills behind him. He smelled the disturbing mixture of onion and cinnamon. It was Whistler.

Trip didn’t want to look up. Things were getting worse by the second. Trip looked down and felt his stomach churn as fear gripped him.

Whistler wheezed, "Already causing trouble? Blaze is a good man, but you can’t get along with him. Seems that you can’t get along with anyone."

Finally Trip spoke. "I don’t have anything to say to you. I don’t have a fight with you."

"Oh, you don’t want to fight. But you don’t have much respect for me either. Or Blaze. Or even Diamond Black Joe."

Whistler shoved Trip’s tray onto the floor. Trip had no choice but to look up into Whistler’s cruel, red eyes.

"Kid, I don’t like you. If I hit you now, no one would say a word. Not a single person. How does that feel?"

Whistler raised his fist. Trip was cornered. He was helpless now, but if he moved to protect himself Whistler would strike. Or was this just a test of his nerve?

Whistler held his fist in the air, but Trip did nothing except look Whistler in the eyes. Finally, Datz spoke.

Whistler lowered his fist, apparently satisfied. He pushed Trip’s shoulder again, adding, "I’ll be watching you. Don’t screw up—I’ll be there."

Whistler left. After a few minutes, Datz grabbed Trip’s tray to take it up to the washer. He leaned over to Trip and whispered, "That’s your low profile? Keep up the good work."

Trip said nothing as Datz brought him to the deep space training rooms on the lowest level of the Diamond Shadow.

Trip had had enough of being mocked. He was tired of being bullied by everyone around him! The next time someone crossed him, he was going to fight back!

Datz turned towards a small changing room. There were three other men there, already changed into skin-tight undersuits. As they headed into the next room, one said to Datz, "Better hurry the boy up! The Lieutenant isn’t patient with slowpokes."

Datz showed Trip to a small locker where he stowed his clothes. Then, Trip picked an undersuit that fit him. The suit was snug to the point of being uncomfortable and the rubbery material made his skin itch. It was also hot, something that wasn’t pleasant aboard ship but Trip knew the insulating material would make a huge difference when he was out in the near-absolute zero chill of deep space.

Datz led Trip into a long, narrow room that held a row of huge power-armor spacesuits. A dozen technicians scurried around in the cramped conditions as the three other men finished suiting up. Their helmets were placed over their heads and Trip heard the high-pitched whine of the suits’ servos activating. As the technicians backed away, the seven-foot-tall suits rocked forward, the clomp! clomp! clomp! of the armored legs banging on the deck plates as they walked to the staging area at the far end of the room. There were three others in identical suits already waiting in front of a heavy, double-layered airlock door. On the other side of that door was the airlock itself—and beyond that, open space!

Trip studied the power-armor suits. Standard spacesuits tended to be lightweight and very flexible, much like the undersuit Trip was already wearing. Trip was about to strap into a combat spacesuit, a heavy-duty behemoth designed to wade into space battles.

About seven feet tall, the suit towered over Trip. The top of the helmet nearly scraped the ceiling. The armor plating was nearly eight inches thick in places. There were seven main sections: the chest, the hip piece, the helmet, and then the two arms and legs, with each section interlocking at the joints. Multi-layered, armored seals secured the joints, providing protection while still being flexible enough for movement.

Trip stepped in front of the suit, grabbed two support bars and pulled his legs up as the suit’s leg pieces were slid into place beneath him. Trip dropped his legs into the suit. The fit was so tight that Trip couldn’t move his legs. Trip released the support bars and found himself teetering awkwardly as he tried to catch his balance.

Trip finally steadied himself. A crewman steered over a rack that held the heavily armored two-piece torso section. Trip held his arms out to each side as Datz and the crewman slid the back section of the torso behind him. While Datz held the back part in place, the technician swung the front section around.

Trip found himself holding his breath as the pirate and Datz pushed the two sections together, with Trip in the middle, like the meat in a sandwich. Trip relaxed when he heard the suit’s magnetic seals snap into place. He was now wrapped in an armored cocoon. The fit was snug. The armor plating dug slightly into Trip’s skin-tight undersuit. Trip felt light pressure on his shoulder blades and just below his waist. He realized the suit had auto-sealing irises. In case of a suit puncture, they irises would seal off the punctured area from the rest of his body so the entire spacesuit wouldn’t be exposed to space.

Next was the hip section, which was quickly snapped into place. Trip held his arms forward and the technicians slipped the arm pieces on. They were so heavy that Trip couldn’t lift his arms.

Twisting his head around to look behind him, Trip saw the spacesuit’s rocket engine nozzles and the bulky fuel packs on the back plate. Above the engine unit were two refill nozzles, one labeled "fuel" and the other "air." Between Trip’s shoulder blades was a small bubble tank for air, while below the rocket engines was the fuel tank. He noticed that tank was very heavily armored—and with good reason since a puncture of the tank could ignite all of the fuel at once. That would turn Trip from a boy into a really bright firecracker.

Two technicians flipped switches just above his waist and warned Trip, "Don’t move yet. The legs aren’t attached."

Trip heard—and through the armor, felt—the torso, hip, and leg systems interlock. Next, the magnetic servos on the arms were connected. Suddenly Trip was trapped, unable to move anything but his head. A technician reached up to the chest plate and flipped a single switch. The hum of power machinery filled Trip’s ears. He felt the arms and legs power up. Suddenly, the great weight on his arms lifted.

Trip tried to move his right arm and to his surprise, the mechanical arm—with fifty pounds of composite armor, power servos and weaponry encasing his flesh and blood arm—moved as if it were nothing more than a thin work shirt. The servos whined softly as they responded to Trip’s every move. Trip twisted his wrist first left, then right, and the whole arm unit twisted with no resistance. The response was so accurate it was almost as if he wasn’t wearing the spacesuit at all. Trip was starting to like this.

The technician brought over an armored helmet and slid it down over Trip’s head, twisting the helmet around until the magnetic seals locked it into place. As Trip looked out the clear plexilaminate visor, he saw several computerized graphic readouts pop up in front of his eyes. The suit had a computerized heads-up display. The suit’s main computer was in the helmet, behind his head. All in all, Trip realized he had a pretty neat piece of technology at his disposal.

The tech nodded and touched a small audio speaker at the front of the helmet. "Your suit speaker is right here."

The sound quality was good. As the technician moved around behind him, Trip realized the suit had a three-dimensional locational sound system. He could follow any incoming sounds as good as—no, actually better than—his normal hearing would allow. He assumed the communication systems between the suits were the same. If someone above and behind Trip called, Trip would hear the sound through the speakers above and behind him, just like in the real world. That would save him from having to ask where the other person was or looking around to see who was speaking to him. It was very handy for a three-dimensional environment like space.

The tech launched into a detailed explanation of the suit’s capabilities. The more that Trip heard, the more he liked this battle suit. It was fully computerized and the servos made movement effortless. Power magnets on the boots and gloves allowed the user to grip the hull of a starship. The magnets could be deactivated with a simple verbal command. The rocket systems could also be controlled with verbal commands. To activate the transcomm system, Trip just had to stick his tongue out and touch the control stud right in front his mouth.

"Kid, your eyes are glazing over. Are you still with me or did I lose you back there?"

Trip gave him a thumbs up. It felt weird as the whole suit moved with him. The tech had to jump out of the way not to get hit by the fast-moving mechanical arm.

"Okay, Trip, on the left hand you have a fusion cutter. It’s short-range only, but it cuts through starship hull plating as quick as you can say, ‘slice, slice.’ It’s more of a tool than a weapon, but up close and personal it can do a number on someone."

The tech reached over and grabbed the right arm, twisting it so Trip could see the back of his hand. He saw an evil-looking energy cannon barrel sticking out of a raised panel.

"Here on the right is your suit’s main weapon, a standard heavy energy cannon. Good against infantry and light armor. It can blow right through one of these spacesuits, but don’t even waste your time shooting at fighters or other ships. You’ll just annoy them and when they notice you, they’ll blow you out of the sky. Targeting is simple, ‘point and shoot.’ You can use the trigger system in your right hand or you can use verbal commands to activate the targeting range finder. The cross hairs displayed in your helmet show where the weapon is pointed. Range data is displayed on the side. Potential targets are highlighted—green for us, red for hostiles. The energy cannon power packs run the entire length of the right arm so you can fire off several hundred shots before you dry up."

The tech then knocked his knuckles on the large chestplate. Trip barely felt it.

"In here are the real bad boys. Trip, tell the computer, ‘Computer, targeting, homers.’"

As Trip did, a new orange-red cross hair appeared right in front of his eyes. The cross hair followed wherever Trip looked.

The tech asked, "Cool, huh? You only have six, so use them carefully. This is an automated targeting system that follows your eye movements—wherever you look, it’s gonna shoot. The micro homing missiles—the ‘homers’—are sheathed in a field of protective energy. The warhead packs enough of a wallop to puncture hull plating. Makes a nice, big boom!"

Trip shivered as that realization came over him. They were training him so he could go into combat, so he’d shoot at other people. Trip felt sick inside.

The tech stepped back. "Well, that’s about it. Any questions? And tell the computer, ‘Homers, deactivate.’"

Trip had a dozen things he wanted to ask, but he didn’t know where to begin. Instead, he swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. His stomach did flip-flops.

Trip took a first, tentative step and found the suit’s walking movement was surprisingly smooth. Another step, then another and another. The movement was fluid and felt natural as he heard the boots clank loudly on the deck plates.

A new, unfamiliar voice screamed in his ear, "Trainees, form up at the airlock entrance! Move it!"

Trip walked to the staging area. Standing directly in front of the airlock, facing Trip and the other trainees, was another battlesuit. It was identical to the trainee suits except for the bold blue stripe that ran down the center of the chest and back.

Trip hurried, walking faster than he felt comfortable and nearly falling over as his massive metal legs shuffled along the floor. Trip fell into line. Mercifully, the commanding pirate didn’t throw any insults at him.

Trip heard a voice boom in his ears. "I’m Nikoshka, but you can call me ‘Lieutenant.’ This will be your first session of deep space training. I know you’ve all had simulator time, but this is the first time in the open."

Trip hesitated to point out that he hadn’t had any simulator time since the Lieutenant might make him sit out this session. And besides, how hard could this be?

Before he was ready and more nervous than ever, the door to the airlock slid open. The others moved forward and Trip followed. Trip’s pulse raced. They formed two lines, side-by-side, with Trip and one other trainee at the back of the airlock. The door back into the staging area sealed behind them. Just ahead was the outer airlock door and beyond that, open space!

Trip glanced over at the other trainee and saw through his visor that sweat was beading on his forehead. Boy, that must itch, Trip thought. Then Trip realized that he was sweating, too. The perspiration moistened his forehead and it was starting to itch—and there was no way to wipe his brow! Trip squirmed and wiggled, turning to the right and then the left, trying to wipe his forehead on the side of the helmet, but with no success.

The airlock door slid open and Trip felt a tug as the air was pulled out into space. Dust was sucked off the floor and formed a glittering cloud, brilliantly reflecting starlight.

The Lieutenant and the first row of trainees stepped into open space. They hung in zero gravity and drifted forward, away from the ship. The trainee on the left slowly started to spin upside down. Then the suits’ rocket nozzles lit up, a beautiful orange color, and the three armored suits pivoted and raced upward, towards the top of the Diamond Shadow. They left behind three trails of brilliant exhaust.

The next row marched out into space and they also fired their rockets to race up and away. With no one else in front of them, Trip and the last remaining trainee glanced at each other. Trip activated his transcomm and asked, "You ready for this?"

The armored suit shrugged like some kind of clumsy giant. Trip thought it looked funny. His speaker clicked on and he heard the trainee say, "I guess. Now or never."

The Lieutenant’s voice barked through Trip’s speakers. "Cut the chatter. Move out and assemble with the rest of us on the upper hull!"

Trip and the other pirate stepped off into space. Trip drifted, completely free. He snapped off the verbal commands to activate the rocket packs and raced "up" the side of the Diamond Shadow, although Trip had to remind himself that there’s no real "up" or "down" in space. In a couple of seconds, he and the other trainee joined the other men, floating in space above the Diamond Shadow.

Trip’s mind was captured by the awe-inspiring beauty of open space. His eyes wandered from a cluster of stars to a beautiful cloud of stellar gasses that twinkled with reds, greens and blues. Trip noticed a brilliant orange star and then realized it was Cennatar, a star he’d seen hundreds of times back home. It was part of the Night Demon constellation, but out here it was so much brighter, so much more beautiful than back home on Karrison. In fact, all the stars were so much brighter.

Trip’s daydreaming ended as the other trainees rocketed "up" away from the Diamond Shadow’s upper hull and deeper into space. Trip realized he had no idea what he was supposed to do, but rather than get chewed out by the Lieutenant, he just followed.

Trip trailed along last, following the trainees as they went through their paces. The maneuvers started off simply—a turn here, sudden acceleration, and then using maneuvering thrusters to slow and spin. As the moves became more elaborate, Trip found himself scrambling to keep up as he followed the others through pivoting spins and complex battle maneuvers.

As the trainees took a second to gather up into a line, Trip thought he was starting to get the hang of it. He looked around and saw the Diamond Shadow far beneath his feet. Trip finally knew how birds must feel! It was exciting, exhilarating, even better than the feeling of racing his scooter through the sand pits at Pennick’s Crossing Cargo Port.

Then the Lieutenant called out, "Battle Formation One, like you drilled in the simulator."

Trip wondered what he was supposed to do. He watched as the other trainees shot off in all directions, spreading out to form an invisible web in space. Nervously Trip watched, hoping to figure out where to go. Finally, knowing he’d be screamed at if he hesitated much longer, Trip picked a direction and rocketed towards the imaginary point he hoped was the right place.

Suddenly each trainee changed direction. Trip glanced around, using his maneuvering thrusters to twist around to see where the others were going. Eventually he spotted the orange exhaust trails of one, then two rocket packs, faint against the blackness and starlight of space. Out of the corner of his eye, Trip saw a flash of sunlight to his left, below him. It looked like it might be something moving towards him.

Trip twisted but still couldn’t see it clearly. Firing his maneuvering thrusters, Trip tried to twist down for a better look. In the excitement, however, he hit the rockets for a little too long. He started to spin away from the Diamond Shadow, tumbling deeper into space.

On the first revolution, Trip realized that the flash of light was another trainee. He was headed straight for him. There wasn’t time to activate the transcomm system. Trip had to get out of the way or they’d collide!

Trip spun around like a top, his back now to the ship and the incoming trainee. As he spun, he saw the stars, then the ship and the trainee—now much closer—and then the stars again. Trip felt dizzy. His stomach started to churn. He tried to count down the seconds until impact.

Trip tried to gather his thoughts but he felt out of control, dizzy, disoriented.

He wanted to tell the computer to fire the rockets, but he couldn’t concentrate as his head spun.

As the galaxy whirled around him, his stomach knotted up. Trip felt himself getting short of breath and his stomach heaved. He tasted something bitter in the back of his throat.

In desperation, Trip fired the suit’s main rockets. He felt the spinning get faster and he spun wildly out of control. As he spun round and round, he saw the other spacesuit rocket through the space he’d been in just a second earlier, but that was soon the farthest thing from his mind as he spun and cartwheeled into open space. Trip looked around, but all he saw was the blackness of space and the stars. As the darkness spun around him and his stomach squeezed painfully, Trip wondered where the Diamond Shadow went.

As he spun, Trip’s stomach heaved. He felt dizzy and short of breath. He realized he was getting space sick. His heart pounded and felt like it would burst. Trip tried to take a deep breath, wanted to calm his flip-flopping stomach, but as he opened his mouth and swallowed, he felt acid climbing up the back of his throat.

Trip tried to open his transcomm transmitter to call for help, but instead he felt the contents of his stomach surging up into his throat.

Trip closed his mouth and held his breath, using every ounce of his will not to throw up. He closed his eyes and found that while he still felt himself tumbling, the spinning did not bother him as much. His suit’s speakers blared to life with calls of, "Where’d the kid go?" and "Missing cadet!"

Trip tried to block out the calls of the other cadets as he swallowed hard and willed his stomach not to empty itself inside his helmet. He tried to think. He pressed the keypad on his right arm to activate the suit’s rocket thrusters and counterbalance the spinning.

As the spinning slowed, Trip’s stomach quelled itself. While Trip wouldn’t go so far as to say that he felt good, at least now he knew he wouldn’t get space sick.

Trip fired short controlled bursts, further slowing the spin. Finally, he drifted slowly through space, under control. Trip glanced around in all directions—left, right, backwards—and reminded himself to think like a bird. He looked up, then down. Finally he spotted the Diamond Shadow, now just a distant red speck in space. In just twenty seconds of uncontrolled tumbling, Trip had traveled so far away that the Diamond Shadow was barely larger than an ordinary star.

The other spacesuits were small white specks. The only way Trip noticed them was that they were moving, leaving orange exhaust plumes behind them. Trip activated the transcomm and called out, "Trip here. Lost control on a tumble but I have recovered."

The Lieutenant hollered, "Move it, cadet. Get in formation or it’s extra duty for you! If you’d paid attention to your instructions, this wouldn’t have happened!"

Trip had a thousand things he really wanted to say but none of them would have helped his case. Instead he weakly responded, "Joining formation, sir."

The drills lasted for at least another hour. This time Trip paid attention. The maneuvers increased in complexity, including marksmanship tasks with the weapons. Trip struggled but he kept up with the others. By the time the Lieutenant herded them all inside the airlock, Trip felt like he could handle anything.

Once inside, the technicians unsnapped the suit and Trip peeled off the cloth undersuit. He was drenched with sweat and he still smelled like he was going to be sick. After a quick sonic shower, Trip felt refreshed although his muscles ached from the exertion of wrestling with the suit. As he sat hunched over a bench in the prep room, feeling his muscles pulse, Trip heard someone walk up behind him.

"Cadet, when I give you orders, I expect you to follow them. Space combat is no place to be fooling around!"

Then, the Lieutenant’s voice softened. "You’ve got to pay attention. If you don’t, you or one of your fellow teammates could die. Now, you got sick didn’t you?"

"You’ve got plenty of air. Each suit has a homing beacon. We would have found you eventually, but I expect my trainees to figure out how to get back on their own. A man who can’t figure out how to survive on his own isn’t much good to us. Still, kid …."

The Lieutenant paused and for the first time Trip saw beyond the Lieutenant’s heartless exterior. He saw the man’s wrinkles and the gray hair. For a second, Nikoshka looked old.

"Kid, I’ve worked with a lot of troops. Most people get sick their first time in zero-gee, but you held back. You might just have what it takes. You’ll get better as long as you pay attention and do what you’re told."

The Lieutenant stood up straight and raised his voice, "Men, you’re dismissed. Report to your quarters. You’ll be summoned when your next duty shift is up."

As the Lieutenant walked away, Trip found that his fear of Nikoshka turning into respect. Trip was ready to follow the Lientenant’s orders. He knew the Lieutenant would get the job done and find a way to bring everyone home.

After changing back to his regular clothes, Trip found his balance was off-kilter again. It was hard to keep his footing after being in zero gravity. Trip made his way back to his quarters, stopping every few feet to steady himself. When he finally got back to quarters, Trip found Datz hanging out in one of the forward lounges.

Trap faded into the background as the pirates traded stories, although most of the conversations revolved around their past "glorious" battles. The more he listened, the more Trip was repulsed. The pirates bragged about their attacks on convoys of civilian ships. The cargoes were sold to black marketers, while the captured ships were sold to outlaw engineers who would cut them apart for parts or change their identicodes so they could be resold on distant planets.

The fate of the crews made Trip shudder. They were sold into slavery, destined to work until their deaths in outlaw mining complexes far beyond the reach of the Frontier Rangers. While the pirates laughed and joked about the handsome profits they earned, Trip couldn’t help but think of the horrible lives these slaves faced. Trip wondered if he’d been in a ship that was captured, if he’d rather die fighting off the pirates than be sent to the slave mines.

Trip sat in silence, angry at the pirates. He knew he had to escape—and find some way to outsmart Diamond Black Joe so the pirate captain wouldn’t activate the poison capsule and kill him.

Trip listened for several hours, not wanting to stay but with nowhere else to go. As sleep period neared, Whistler came in, spoke for just a few moments, and without even noticing Trip in the shadows, moved on to bed. Datz stayed there the whole time as the other crewmembers came and went.

Just as Trip realized how late it was getting, the Lieutenant walked in. Everyone fell silent and Trip realized that most of the other crewmembers felt the same respect that Trip had for him. A second later, Whistler returned and he slid into the back of the room, next to Trip.

"I think it’s time for us to get some rest. The attack starts at four this morning. That’s just six hours! With five ships in the Sh’nar convoy, we’ll have to work quickly to capture them before they can jump to lightspeed. I don’t want to lose any of those ships because you louses are overtired!"

He laughed at the last comment, but everyone knew he was only half kidding. Trip heard some nervous laughter from the back of the room.

"We jump to lightspeed in a couple of hours. Thanks to Whistler over there—" Whistler nodded as the Lieutenant pointed to him, "—we found out the destination of the Sh’nar ship that left Karrison just before we did. It was supposed to hook up with a small Sh’nar convoy at Capessia. As we speak, the convoy should be at lightspeed, headed home for Sh’Bahral. So now we just cross the convoy’s path, drop asteroids in the most likely flight vectors to block the way and force them to drop into normal space. While they get their bearings and try to plot an escape jump, we strike. In five minutes it’s going to be all over. It’s a textbook raid, gentlemen. Most of you have done these before and I have every reason to expect excellent results."

No! Trip realized they were going to attack Jinx and her ship! He had to do something!

A shiver ran down Trip’s spine as Whistler turned to him and asked, "What’s wrong, kid? You look like you’re gonna pass out."

Whistler sneered. "Good. We’ve got no use for crewmembers who don’t have the stomach for easy money."

Trip drifted off to bed along with the others, his calm exterior hiding the worries that ran through his mind. As he lay in the darkness, staring up at the bunk above him and listening to the other pirates snore, he had nothing to do but think.

How was he going to save Jinx? How could he warn her? How could he stop the pirates from capturing the Sh’nar ships and enslaving them?

Trip knew he had to find a way to warn the Sh’nar convoy so they could get away from the pirate attack. But how could he do that? Communications signals wouldn’t reach them in time. They only moved at the speed of light and the Sh’nar ships were now several light years from here. Starships at lightspeed were actually in a different dimension—that was what allowed them to move many times the speed of light—but communications signals traveled in normal space. They moved at the speed of light, no faster, so using a transcomm to call ahead and warn them was out.

The only way to get a warning off was to fly ahead in a ship, physically catch up to the Sh’nar, and warn them. But how could he get off the ship safely? How could he get away without the pirates knowing what he was trying to do? And when they found out, what was to stop them from activating the poison capsule and killing him?

Trip stared at the ceiling, turning the problem over and over in his mind, trying to come up with some way to warn them. There just had to be a way.

Almost every ship carried a couple of message drones for emergencies. The idea was that if a ship was disabled and stranded in deep space, the message drone—basically an automated ship about six feet long but with a lightspeed engine—could be programmed to go to the nearest inhabited system. Upon arriving there, the drone would send out a distress signal with information on where the stranded ship was located.

If he timed it right, Trip could program a message drone to stop in the path of the oncoming Sh’nar convoy and broadcast a warning signal on all frequencies. It was a long shot. Since the Sh’nar convoy would be flying at many times the speed of light when it passed the drone, they would have only a few seconds to pick up the signal. It might work. It was better than doing nothing.

Now Trip knew how to help the Sh’nar, but he wondered how he could get the message out to them. He didn’t even know where message drones were stored on the Diamond Shadow. They had to have some kind of security system and Trip didn’t have even the lowest level security codes.

But Datz probably has access, Trip thought. Datz was still out on the ship somewhere instead of in his room. It’s the middle of the night and everyone is trying to get some sleep before the battle in…. Trip glanced at his chrono and his stomach churned. In just four hours! Four hours until the Sh’nar convoy is attacked. Maybe Jinx will be hurt or killed! If the pirates win—and they will—Jinx will be put into slavery. Here I am, the only person in the galaxy that can do anything about it, and I’m lying in bed trying to figure out how to save my own hide!

Trip sat up in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He listened to see if he’d disturbed any of the pirates in the room. There was nothing but snoring. He slipped out of his bunk. Then, his eyes oh-so-slowly adjusting to the darkness, he carefully, silently slid his feet along the floor, creeping, trying not to bump into anything.

First Trip went to his locker and grabbed his portable computer. Then he turned towards Datz’s room. As he reached the security keypad, Trip realized there was no turning back. If he was caught in Datz’s room, the punishment would be severe.

Trip stared at the keypad as he entered each number, hoping against hope that he’d remembered the security code correctly. Trip tensed as he entered the ninth and then the final, tenth number. The lock’s light shifted from red to green. Trip wanted to say, "Ssshhh!" to the chime that seemed to echo through the room.

Trip glanced around. The pirate on the nearest bunk stirred, yawned, scratched himself, and then turned over, his back now to Trip. Soon the pirate was sound asleep again.

Trip pushed the door to Datz’s room open. He snuck in, quietly closed the door behind him and slowly brought the lights up just enough so that he could see. He hoped that not too much of the light filtered into the other room.

Trip crept over to Datz’s computer, started it, and, to his relief, quickly found the Diamond Shadow’s deck plans.

Boy, the Diamond Shadow’s computer network is slow, Trip thought, It must have been a long time since they had a decent computer programmer work on this system!

With the deckplans downloaded, Trip popped the memory stick out of Datz’s computer.

Trip plugged the mem stick into his own portable computer. He scanned the deck plans and found where the message drones were located. Trip shut down Datz’s computer, dimmed the lights and snuck back out into the barracks room, closing the door behind him.

So far, so good, Trip thought, his hopes rising as he realized he might be able to pull this off.

Instead of returning to his bunk, Trip quietly crept into the main hallway, moving quickly to close the barracks door behind him. The hallway lights were also low, giving the illusion of night despite the fact that onboard a starship there is no such thing as day or night. Using "day and night cycle" lighting fluctuations was common aboard many starships since it helped the crews maintain a normal body rhythm.

Everyone must be on sleep-shift before the battle, Trip thought with some relief.

The message drones were nearly all the way across the ship! Trip had to move quickly and launch the drone before the Diamond Shadow jumped to lightspeed. To plot a jump through lightspeed, you had to know both the destination coordinates—where the ship was going—and the origin coordinates—where you were jumping from. If the Diamond Shadow jumped to lightspeed before Trip could launch the drone, he’d never be able to accurately guess the origin coordinates—the Diamond Shadow would be moving too fast—and the message drone would completely miss the Sh’nar convoy!

Trip moved through the Diamond Shadow’s corridors quickly, but he knew he had to be careful. If he was caught running through the halls, he would be certain to be questioned about it. That would end the rescue effort right there!

Trip made good time. In just a few minutes, he’d gotten over half way through the ship. Still, time was not on his side. He had to get to the main communications bay where the drones were stored before the jump to lightspeed. Then, he had to get back to his bunk before he was missed.

A few moments later, Trip stopped to consult the deck plans on his portable computer. Down three decks and just a few more corridors. He was almost there! Trip heard voices behind him. It was a group of pirates laughing and joking, and they were heading his way. Trip slipped around a corner, hoping they’d turn away.

Curious, Datz asked, "So, Trip, what’s wrong? You’re supposed to be sleeping now."

AUTHOR'S NOTE
As an independent writer and publisher, I take great pride in being able to share my stories directly with readers. Thank you for reading!

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OUTLAW GALAXY BOOKS
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If you enjoyed these Outlaw Galaxy stories, any contribution to the Tip Jar is welcome, whether it’s a dime or a quarter for a short story or a buck or two for a novel. Your support and encouragement is greatly appreciated and enables me to keep on writing and publishing Outlaw Galaxy stories. Thank you!

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OUTLAW GALAXY EBOOKS
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All of the major ebook reading devices can read either HTML, .txt or PDF files, but there are many free programs to convert files into specialty ebook formats for use on your cellphone, PDA or other portable device.

Why Pay? Some of you may be wondering why you should pay for an Outlaw Galaxy ebook.

Here's my thinking: They're a dollar or two. Each book provides hours of entertainment. And Outlaw Galaxy ebooks are customer friendly, so you can use the ebook the way you want to.

Compare that to other items: Novels run about $8 these days. Comic books are $3-4 an issue. Don't get me started on the price of gas or a movie.

As for other publishers' ebooks? Many come with DRM to prevent you from making backup copies or printing. There are format issues: Will this ebook work on my computer or portable device? Not to mention that many publishers' ebooks are much more expensive.

But if a buck or two is over your budget, get some friends to chip in. Have them toss in a dime or a quarter...it adds up. Then read and share.

These ebooks are shipped without any form of DRM, so you can make backup copies, print, and reformat for other devices such as PDAs and cell phones. And I think it's cool if you want to share them with a few friends.

You don't see movie studios or record labels doing that, do you?

No. They sue people (even little old ladies who don't actually own computers). They treat their customers like criminals. They secretly install spyware and rootkits that can destroy your computer. They tell you that you're not allowed to make back-up copies of stuff you've already paid for. They want to make "piracy" a crime punishable with enormous fines and jail time.

Me? I'm trying to be reasonable. I offer Outlaw Galaxy ebooks at a fair price, in an easy-to-use HTML format that can be read by any web browser, and with no DRM. I expressly give you permission to print them, make backup-copies, and format them for use on other devices.

And I think it's cool if you share them with a few friends. I discovered most of my favorite authors by word-of-mouth from friends or by borrowing from libraries, so it's okay with me if you slip a few copies to other people who'll enjoy these Outlaw Galaxy stories. Just don't sell these stories, make any changes or post them on other websites.

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LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK: I love to hear from my readers. Send comments and questions to bill@billsmithbooks.com

To the Stars!

-- Bill Smith

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: © 2009 by Bill Smith. Permission granted to copy this story for personal use and limited sharing as outlined in this Author's Note. This work may not be altered, resold, or reposted on other websites without the author's permission.

Author reserves all other rights, including (but not limited to) derivative works, adaptations, dramatizations, licensing, merchandise, and subsequent stories in any form using Outlaw Galaxy characters and situations. For further information or commercial permissions, contact the author at bill@billsmithbooks.com.

END AUTHOR'S NOTE