Rogue Fleet

Prologue

“Look alive,” called a red-headed, barrel-chested man wearing a gray tank top that used to be white. Red, a name he had picked up because of his fire red hair and pale white skin, sent shivers up the spine of anyone that dared to cross him. He was good at his job and he commanded his vessel with an iron fist. He kept them alive too, but when mercenaries complained about their leader they rarely considered the good. “We’re crossing the border zone!” he bellowed, wandering from station to station to ensure his men were scanning their sector.

Three of them, one at the front and one on each side manned laser cannons that supposedly cut a ship in half in a matter of seconds if someone crossed him. None ever had but Tamara wasn’t sad that she didn’t get to see the show. It was a far better strategy to let a mercenary boast about the capabilities of his ship rather than be forced to show her what it could do in a dogfight.

Tamara glanced over at Red and smiled. She liked him. She always had. Red grabbed his handle bar mustache and gave her a wink, his pale white skin shining whiter than ever under the florescent lights in the cabin of the transport ship. He fancied himself more desirable than he really was. Another aspect of his shining personality.

“You gonna keep us safe up here, Red?” She asked.

Red stood for a moment and stared at her, rubbing his mustache the whole time. She suspected he wanted to say something deep and meaningful, but that just wasn’t Red. The deeper he thought, the harder he rubbed his face until finally Red’s foot, covered in a black leather boot, started tapping too. Somehow that mustache must have been hardwired into his brain because when he rubbed the hair on his mustache, the foot couldn’t help but stomp. Finally, after what would be an awkward length of time for anyone else, Red conceded and threw the question back at her. “I should ask you the same thing.”

“You know I don’t work well up here in the void. Not much oxygen, Red.” She looked around the cabin and out of the window before adding “not many elements to play with either.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. None of us want to die if you get out of sorts,” he responded with a bit of disappointment in his deep brown eyes. “I had to ask though.”

The burly man flexed his chest as he walked past Tamara and continued his checks in the cabin of the small vessel. Their trip was a relatively small one, only fifty parsecs to travel, or the equivalent distance between the planet Hestos and the moon of Charlon. Their ship, a small transport vessel carrying about sixty passengers, four marines, two pilots, and Tamara was a trading ship but had recently been contracted to supply workers to the ever-growing farming requirements on Charlon. The folks they carried were happy for the work and Tamara was happy for some fresh air away from the bustle of Hestos.