Captain North was fond of repeating that a man should be judged not by his ability to conceive great enterprises, but by how he can recognize a favorable opportunity and seize it in a timely manner.
By capturing the magnificent vessel of the Holy Dominion, the Alatris, North had proven he possessed these abilities, and he confirmed it once again by thwarting the schemes of the vile pirate Captain Craig, who had intended to take possession of that noble ship. However, after he and his vessel narrowly escaped destruction, it became clear that the Libertagne sector was dangerous for them. That same day, a council was convened on the main deck, and North laid out the following simple philosophy: when a man is attacked, he must either fight or flee.
"And since we cannot fight when we are attacked—and attacked we surely will be—it follows that we must only play the role of cowards, if only to stay alive and prove our bravery later."
Everyone agreed with him. But even if the decision had been made to flee immediately, exactly where to flee would have to be considered later. For now, it was necessary to get far away from the Libertagne station and from Captain Craig, whose treacherous intentions were no longer in doubt.
And so, in the dead of night, by the station's onboard time, the majestic cruiser—once the pride of the Holy Dominion's shipyards—undocked without warning from the repair dock and, engaging maneuvering thrusters and using a gravity assist from the gas giant, shifted to main drive and set course for open space. If the rumble of reactors, the clang of docking clamps, and the flicker of navigation lights did reveal this maneuver to Craig, standing on the command bridge of the Harpy ten kilometers from the Alatris, he was still powerless to hinder North's intentions.
At least three-quarters of his marauding crew were carousing in the port bars on Libertagne, and Craig could not board with the pirates remaining on the ship, even though they outnumbered the crew on the Alatris two to one. However, even if all seven hundred men of his crew had been on board, Craig still would not have attempted to prevent Captain North's departure. He had already tried to seize the Alatris in the Libertagne system through cunning, but even his audacious effrontery recoiled at the thought of an outright forcible seizure of a vessel in that sector, especially since the station administrator, Valcour, seemed to be favorably disposed toward North and his fellow fugitives.
In open space, matters would be different, and later he would concoct such a story about how the Alatris fell into his hands that no one on Libertagne would be able to expose him.
Thus, Captain Craig allowed Corvin North to leave the station unhindered and was even pleased by his departure. He was in no hurry to give chase: excessive haste might betray his intentions. Craig prepared with some deliberation and only started the reactors the following day. He had no doubt that he would correctly guess the direction North had chosen, and the Harpy's superior speed gave him every reason to believe he would catch his prey before North could get far enough away. His reasoning was quite logical. He knew that the Alatris's helium-3 reserves were insufficient for a long voyage; consequently, North could not possibly have headed directly toward the central worlds.
First and foremost, North needed to replenish fuel supplies, and since he would not dare to enter any colony of the Alliance or the Holy Dominion, he had only one option: to try his luck at one of the neutral stations of the League of Free Portals. Moreover, lacking accurate charts, he would hardly risk taking the ship through the dangerous gravitational anomalies of the Bahamian Belt. Therefore, it was easy to guess that North would set course for the Windward Sector stations, to make for Sint, Sabu, or Eustatius. And so, confident that he would catch North long before he reached the nearest of those neutral colonies, located two hundred light-minutes from Libertagne, Craig flew east along the gravitational lines of Eustatius.
However, things went far from as smoothly as this pirate had calculated. The thrust vector, initially favorable, shifted by evening, and overnight the gravitational disturbance reached storm force, so that at dawn—a sinister dawn breaking amidst the crimson clouds of cosmic dust—the Harpy had not only failed to advance but had been thrown several light-minutes off its course. By noon, the gravitational currents had shifted again, now coming from the north, and even stronger than before. A coronal storm raged over the Borderlands, and for twenty-four hours the Harpy was tossed about by the onslaught of gravitational waves, all main drives shut down and external sensors sealed, while the disturbed fields hurled the ship about like a splinter.
But Craig was not only a stubborn fighter but also an experienced spacefarer. Thanks to his skillful piloting, the Harpy suffered no damage, and as soon as the storm subsided and a stable southwesterly thrust vector established itself, the frigate again rushed after its quarry. With all main drives engaged, the Harpy flew through space still disturbed by the aftermath of the storm.
Craig encouraged his men, reminding them that the storm that had delayed them had undoubtedly delayed the Alatris as well, and considering how inexperienced the crew of the former Holy Dominion cruiser was, the storm might even have worked in the Harpy's favor.
What the storm had in store for them, they would learn the very next morning by ship's time, when beyond the gravitational anomaly of Cape Escada they spotted a transport which, due to the distance, they first mistook for the Alatris, but soon realized it was some other vessel. It unquestionably belonged to the Holy Dominion, evidenced not only by the massiveness of its forms but also by its identification marks and transponder code. All of the transport's main drives were operating at reduced power, and making only slow headway, the vessel was clumsily advancing toward the constellation of Mona.
Catching sight of this storm-damaged ship, Craig behaved like a predator spotting prey. The Alatris was momentarily forgotten. For here, nearby, was far easier pickings.
Leaning over the control console on the navigation bridge, Craig began hastily shouting commands. With feverish speed, the crew prepared for battle: diverting power to the shields, charging the plasma cannons and missile launchers. Chad, Craig's assistant—a stocky strongman who, despite his dullness, was excellent at piloting the ship and wielding a boarding vibroblade—took his place at the controls. The weapons systems operators manned their stations, calibrated their sights, and awaited the command. However unruly and willful Craig's men might be in ordinary times, before and during battle they strictly observed discipline.
Their captain, standing on the bridge, carefully examined the Holy Dominion transport they were rapidly overtaking and watched with contempt as the vessel uselessly tried to gain speed. His experienced eye immediately discerned what had happened to the transport, and in a sharp, nasal voice he shared his conclusions with Chad at the controls:
"They were heading for the central worlds when the storm caught them. Their main reactor is damaged, or perhaps they sustained other damage as well, and now they're heading back to the Dominion to lick their wounds." Craig laughed contentedly and stroked his thick black beard. His dark, insolent eyes gleamed malevolently in his ruddy face. "A Dominion transport hurrying home, Chad—that's a tasty morsel. There'll be plenty to plunder. By God, our luck has finally turned!"
He was indeed lucky. He had long fumed that his frigate, the Harpy, lacked sufficient power to seize a truly valuable prize in the Borderlands, and it was for this very reason that he had sought to acquire the Alatris. But of course, he would never have risked attacking a well-armed Dominion transport had it not been for the damage that rendered it unable to maneuver or fire upon an enemy.
The transport fired first, a full broadside at the Harpy, thereby sealing its own death warrant. The Harpy, presenting its bow, was a poor target, and aside from one breach in the auxiliary sections, sustained no damage. Its shields held, merely rippling for an instant under the impact. Craig answered with a salvo from the forward cannons, targeting the transport's central decks.
Then, deftly anticipating the transport's clumsy attempt to turn, the Harpy pulled alongside its port side, taking advantage of the fact that the transport's guns were still discharged. Metal screeched, a heavy impact shook both vessels, and boarding grapples bit into the transport's hull.
And so, locked together, both ships moved as one, carried by the gravitational current, while the pirates, at the giant Craig's command, donned magnetic soles, sealed their tactical suits, fired a volley from their hand weapons, and, like ants, swarmed toward the ship's docking arms. Cutting through the airlocks, they burst onto the transport's decks. There were about two hundred of them—savage bandits in unzipped suits, helmets removed, upper armor discarded, counting on speed and surprise. Their stocky faces, muscles rippling beneath, made them all the more terrifying to behold.
Opposing them were at most one hundred and fifty Dominion soldiers in light body armor and helmets: formed up on the transport's central deck, they calmly aimed their hand weapons, awaiting their officer's command.
The officer gave the order, and a volley momentarily checked the attackers. Then the pirate wave overwhelmed the Dominion soldiers, and the transport Andromeda was taken.
Probably, even in that era, in those sectors, it would have been difficult to find a man more cruel and merciless than Craig, and those who flew under his command, as usually happens, tried to emulate their ferocious captain in every way. They proceeded to cold-bloodedly kill the Dominion soldiers, throwing the bodies out into open space through damaged airlocks, and dealt just as cold-bloodedly with the weapons operators on the gun deck, even though those unfortunates had surrendered without resistance in the vain hope of saving their lives.
Ten minutes after the transport Andromeda had been boarded, only Captain Don Ilfonso—whom Craig had personally stunned with his blaster butt—the navigator, and forty crew members who had been in the reactor compartment at the moment of the attack remained alive. Craig decided to spare these people, calculating that they might still prove useful.
While his crew scurried about the ship, disentangling the confused docking couplings and hastily repairing damage, Craig, before beginning his inspection of the captured vessel, started interrogating Don Ilfonso.
The Dominion officer, his face ashen, a lump swelling on his forehead where the blaster butt had struck him, sat on a container in the spacious captain's quarters and, though his hands were bound, attempted to maintain the haughtiness befitting an officer of the Holy Dominion in the presence of an insolent space brigand. But Craig savagely threatened to loosen his tongue by the simplest of means, called torture, whereupon Captain Ilfonso, realizing resistance was futile, began sullenly answering the pirate's questions. His answers, as well as further examination of the ship, showed Craig that the value of his captured prize exceeded his wildest dreams.
Into the hands of this pirate, who had recently known no luck at all, had fallen one of those treasures that all space rovers dream of. The transport Andromeda had departed Porto Bianco, loaded with platinum and credits, delivered through the Constellation of Shadows to pay the contracts of Dominion workers laboring there.
The transport had left the starport under the protection of three warships and intended to stop at Eustatius. But the storm that had raged over the Borderlands separated the transport from its escort and, with a damaged reactor, drove it into the constellation Mona. Now it was heading back to Porto Bianco, hoping to meet its companions there or await another convoy.
When Craig's eyes, burning with greed, beheld the platinum ingots in the Andromeda's cargo hold, he estimated the treasure at roughly two to two and a half million credits. Such a prize falls into a pirate's hands only once in a lifetime; now both he and his crew were to become wealthy men.
However, the possession of wealth is always fraught with anxiety, and Craig now thought only of how to quickly deliver his booty to a safe place, to Libertagne.