The freighter Musk was, once again, behind schedule. This delay could not be blamed on its prudent captain. The League of Corporations had ordered Musk into the repair docks for a last-minute upgrade.
Captain Derby Rigg prowled the lower decks as long hours passed. Rigg understood the League’s logic, but she hated the extra downtime. People on Mars, including her good friends Taylor and Genna, desperately needed supplies.
She moved deeper into the ship’s bowels. Rigg rarely visited these lower levels, the domain of the gear rats. But with the two mechanics outside helping the dock workers, she could poke around down here undisturbed.
The air reeked of silicon. Rigg stepped to a catwalk railing and peered into the chasm below, where nimble machines built solar panels for the Martian colonies.
She watched a single panel move through the snaking assembly line. Each machine added a piece before passing it down the line. Within minutes, the newly minted panel was wrapped and ready for installation.
Rigg envied the machines. They didn’t worry about schedules or deadlines. The future, like the past, meant nothing to them. Only the present mattered, and the task at hand.
A ship’s captain could not afford such luxury. Worrying was part of her job. By anticipating problems, she often could avoid them.
Still, Rigg felt she worried too much, which could be harmful, even paralyzing. She vowed to be more like the machines.
A message scrolled across her eyepiece. Dyson reported the dock workers had finished. After a final glance down, she stepped from the rail, leaving the machines to their business.
“How many of those things did they put on my hull?” Rigg asked as she strode onto the bridge.
“Twenty-four,” replied Dyson.
“Where are our gear rats?”
“Both mechanics have returned via Airlock B.”
“Very well,” she said. “Prepare for departure.”
As Dyson readied the ship, Rigg scrolled through the hull cameras. Every view held at least one of the new devices.
They were large-caliber chain guns. For the first time in spacefaring history, a cargo ship had been given teeth.
The idea of arming freighters was not new. During the Great Wars of the 20th century, merchant ships carried weapons to ward off submarines and other raiders.
Rigg knew the League was desperate. Her report about the Diablo incident had spawned near-panic. Never had a marauder attempted to seize a ship. If not for Rigg’s daring and a little luck, Musk would be in the hands of criminals.
The thought kept League executives awake at night. To get some sleep, they armed the entire freighter fleet.
Rigg had to admit that the gun turrets looked impressive. A thick black barrel protruded from each armored bulb. The chain guns featured auto-targeting and a deep supply of high-density rounds. Any raiders coming within range would soon find themselves perforated.
“All systems ready,” said Dyson.
“Cast off.”
Musk eased from the dock’s protective ribs. Once clear, the big ship turned its engines toward Earth and began the long journey to Mars.
“Where’s our new friend?” Rigg asked.
Dyson toggled the hologram to long-range view. A green icon crept in the distance, its course set to intersect with that of Musk.
“We will rendezvous with Bezos in roughly nine hours,” he replied.
This was another League directive. From now on, no cargo ship would travel alone. They would make the voyage in pairs.
A little more than nine hours later, the Bezos pulled alongside. Its captain, Dru Severin, appeared on one of the wall monitors.
Rigg smiled. “Hey, Sev. Ready for our road trip?”
“Ready and able,” Severin replied. “But I believe first we must put on a fireworks show.”
“Oh, right, the live-fire exercise. Let’s get to it.”
The two vessels veered apart, building a healthy distance for safety. At ten klicks out, they activated their chain guns.
Immediately, both ships became ensconced in a deadly flak cocoon. Red tracers flowed from the guns in long streams, like neon water gushing from a firehose.
Rigg knew that, for every glowing tracer, a dozen unseen bullets followed. The spray of lead seemed utterly impenetrable.
After just ten seconds, both captains ceased fire. The guns clearly worked, and it was best to conserve ammo.
Musk and Bezos went into radio silence. For the rest of the journey, they would communicate only by signal lamp.
That night, while curled in her bunk, Rigg wondered if the powerful chain guns would deter the marauders. She tried to imagine their counter-tactics.
“Stop worrying,” she finally mumbled. “Be more like the machines.”
Soon she drifted off to sleep.
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