Derby Rigg, captain of the freighter Musk, tried to read her opponent.
The stone-faced woman on the screen seemed more competent than most marauders, and not just because of her natty attire. Those icy eyes held a calculating intelligence.
“Are you aware of the penalties for interfering with a supply ship?” Rigg began. “Ten years in prison and a fine of—”
“Please,” interrupted the woman. “Let us save time.”
Rigg sighed. “Fine. I’m prepared to offer you ten percent of my cargo.”
“That is an insult.”
“Well, I’d hate to insult the well-dressed space pirate. Fifteen percent.”
The woman smirked. “I demand all of your cargo, and your ship, too.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“In return, I guarantee your personal safety and that of your crew. You may take the lifeboat, with extra provisions.”
“How very generous. I’d like to confer with my first officer.”
The woman considered this request, then she nodded and closed the channel.
Rigg turned from the empty monitor. “They’re getting smarter.”
“And bolder,” added Dyson. “Ten percent no longer satisfies them.”
“Greed,” she muttered, as they studied the hologram.
A web of mines surrounded Musk, except in the stern, where the marauder ship held a blocking position, completing the trap. The computer identified it as the Diablo, an old transport that had been reported scrapped. Clearly, someone had faked the scrapyard’s records.
“Diablo makes the largest marauder we’ve seen to date,” Dyson noted.
“But still small compared to us.”
“What are you thinking of doing?”
“Something I’d really rather not do,” said Rigg, rubbing her neck. “But she’s probably going to force me.”
She returned to the monitor and opened the channel.
The stylish woman looked up from a tablet. “Your decision?”
“I hope you realize you’re not just robbing the League of Corporations,” Rigg chided. “You’re taking food and supplies from people trying to survive in the outposts. Those scientists and engineers breathe red dust to build a better future for all of us. They don’t deserve the likes of you.”
The marauder set down her tablet and folded her hands. “Your decision, please.”
Rigg scowled. “You can have twenty percent. No more.”
“Insufficient. Prepare to be boarded.”
“Be warned,” Rigg growled, moving closer to the screen, “I am authorized to do anything necessary to defend this ship.”
An instant of hesitation crossed the marauder’s face. She likely had never encountered such strong resistance. Most freighter captains accepted small losses as a cost of doing business. Everyone knew that until the League got serious about security, the piracy would continue.
The hesitancy vanished. “Do as you must,” she said, and closed the channel.
Rigg cursed softly, then sprang to action. “Get our engines spun up. Have the gear rats seal off the aft compartments. Give me all views from the stern cameras.”
Dyson complied, then joined her at the wall displays. Diablo sat motionless just a few klicks away. A faded red devil adorned its old hull. The pitchfork-wielding demon grinned at them.
“She’ll send out her boarding party soon,” Rigg predicted. “That’s when we make our move.”
“What if they don’t give way?”
“A collision would be harder on them than it will on us. Once she realizes that, she’ll back off.”
Dyson pursed his lips. “You are counting on rational behavior from a criminal.”
“Trust me, this one is entirely rational.”
A hatch slid open near the devil’s tail. A small vessel emerged.
“They’ve launched a standard tender,” Dyson reported. “Big enough for eight people, but they’ll have suits and weapons so probably no more than six aboard.”
“Are we battened down? Where are the gear rats?”
“The mechanics have finished their work and come forward. We are secure.”
“Very well,” Rigg said. “Time to show her I wasn’t bluffing. Full astern.”
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