Dyson engaged Musk’s engines. The gigantic freighter began backing from its mine snare. A stubborn Diablo still held a blocking position.
The boarding party, however, had lost their courage. The tender was turning to flee.
Rigg tried to imagine the panic aboard the little tender. They had left Diablo armed to the teeth, likely relishing the thought of storming the freighter and hunting down its crew. Now, that same colossus bore down on them, threatening to steamroll their tiny craft.
In battle, fortunes changed without warning. Rigg told herself to remember that.
An alarm shrilled. The ship’s sensors had detected the impending collision. Rigg looked to the hologram, where the little tender flashed red.
The would-be boarders retreated as fast as they could, but the cliff face of Musk’s aft was overtaking them.
“Shall I reduce speed?” asked Dyson.
“Negative.”
He cast a disapproving look.
“They created this situation,” she said through a set jaw. “Maybe next time they’ll think twice.”
Now it seemed the little boat might escape. It had nearly cleared the freighter’s path.
Rigg’s jaw clenched tighter. She wished them no harm, but she needed some chaos to make her own getaway.
The tender pushed within ten meters of safety. A few more seconds and it would be out of the way. If Musk’s hull were not studded with cargo containers, it would already be clear. A near-miss seemed likely.
The design of tender boats had changed little since the early days of commercial spaceflight. These little workhorses moved people and supplies between larger ships. A critical role, yet they received only basic maintenance. No shipping line ever wanted to spend money upgrading its tender fleet. The typical tender was a beat-up, overworked antique.
Diablo’s tender was no different, and in fact it seemed older than most. Protruding from its stern was a meter-long, steel loading ramp. The clumsy ramp had been trimmed from later models.
The ramp turned a near-miss into a chaotic collision. The last of Musk’s cargo containers clipped it, ripping open the tender’s aft end and sending it into a frantic spin.
Rigg watched in disbelief as the rotating little vessel disgorged its contents like a piñata. Twirling weapons and flailing suited figures spilled into open space.
Diablo no longer appeared willing to call Rigg’s bluff. The old transport sprang to life, yielding to Musk with emergency speed.
The distance between the two ships dwindled. The collision alarm resumed its blare.
“Hurry up,” Rigg murmured, for this time an impact would be catastrophic.
At this point her ship was a projectile. Even if she lost her nerve and ordered a full stop, it would make little difference. Only Diablo’s straining power plant could affect the outcome now. The faded red devil still grinned at her, as if amused by her distress.
Once, when Rigg was a junior officer working the freight yards, she witnessed a near-miss that cost both captains their jobs. Their ships had come within fifty meters of colliding.
Already Musk and Diablo were much closer than fifty meters. The two hulls, it seemed, would soon trade paint.
Rigg grabbed a handhold and braced for impact. The aft monitors blurred, their cameras too near the other ship to focus.
The sickening lurch and shudder never arrived. Musk barreled past, so close that an antenna scratched a line across the devil’s cheek.
The collision alarm faded. The hologram turned green.
Rigg exhaled and looked to Dyson, who stood with arms crossed. She had gambled and gotten lucky. They both knew it.
“Put a healthy distance between us, then make a beeline for Mars,” she ordered.
“What if they pursue?”
“Don’t worry,” she called over her shoulder. “They’ll be too busy collecting their floaters.”
“Where are you going?”
“To write my report,” she said. “The game has changed, and the League needs to know.”
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