Episode 49

"Just who the hell do these people think they are? Is this Benz's doing? Or is it that total load of crap, Hans?"

Ding the Dingo, President of the Outlaw Corp known as "White Dingo"—a group that boasted enough firepower to bully the entire star system—barked in shock at the three light points flickering on his Radar Screen. A tidal wave of white-hot rage was currently doing laps in his gut, but for the moment, pure bewilderment was winning the race.

"Hey, Dingo! This wasn't part of the deal! What the hell is happening!?"

Standing beside Dingo was a man hunched over the Radar Screen, his fingers drumming an irritated, frantic beat against the desk. Dingo shot the man a look sharp enough to shave with and spat on the floor.

"Like I'd know, you dipstick."

"Regarding this little situation, let me be clear," Dingo growled, his voice dropping into a menacing register. "I didn't tell a soul. Not a single person. Which means, you brainless sack of meat, the only way word got out is if one of your people leaked it."

With a sudden, violent grace, Dingo swung an arm the size of a redwood log. His fist connected with the hand the man had been using to drum on the table, effortlessly pulverizing the bones into a fine powder.

"Stop wailing like that, you piece of trash. Even if your life is only worth as much as a plastic chip fished out of a urinal, you’re still an outlaw. Have some pride."

Dingo stepped toward the man, who was currently performing a very spirited interpretation of a dying fish on the floor.

"In the first place," Dingo continued, "choosing this depressing Abandoned Station as a hand-off point and hiding the goods in that stingy Observation Station were your brilliant ideas. So, how do you plan on taking responsibility for this mess, huh?"

The man opened his mouth to offer a defense, but Dingo's fist arrived first. The blow shattered the man’s teeth and sent him tumbling across the floor until he finally went limp, opting for a permanent nap.

"Hey. I know you're listening, you shitty excuse for a handler."

Dingo tossed the words into the air, and a voice crackled back from the communicator.

"Calm down, Ding the Dingo. We didn't do anything, and we weren't told a thing. If there was a leak, it was a solo act by the man you just dealt with."

"Hah? Excuses? How unmanly of you, you pile of dung. I don't tolerate being played for a fool. Even outlaws have rules, but you lot just took a giant, steaming dump on mine."

Dingo eased his massive frame into a custom-built oversized seat and hammered out a fleet-wide command to his eighteen ships. The order was brief and to the point: TEACH THE TRAITORS A LESSON.

"Wait, Dingo! Don't be hasty! We—"

Dingo winced at the pathetic begging coming through the speakers. Feeling a wave of terminal boredom, he twisted the volume knob to zero. He’d already made up his mind, and in his world, his mind was the only one that mattered.

"Fire. Don't let a single one of them escape."

On his command, a volley of Beams erupted from his destroyer. The lances of light tore into a sister ship of the same model running right alongside him, blooming into a series of spectacular fireballs.

Soon, all eighteen ships under his command were vomiting Beams at the four vessels caught at point-blank range. Thanks to their Automatic Shield Generation Device, the four targets managed to endure the hellfire for exactly one minute. But once their Shield Battery hit zero, they were snuffed out one by one.

"All ships, full speed ahead! Don't let those petty thieves get away!"

Dingo bellowed the order to resume the pursuit. He wasn't about to leave any survivors who might get the bright idea to come back for revenge later. He was going to turn this sector into a mass grave for every single traitor. It was his signature move, after all.

As they burned toward the Abandoned Observation Station, Dingo spent the next two hours boredly shelling the wreckage. He didn't stop until the targets were little more than spicy space dust—at which point his gunners were actually struggling to find anything big enough to lock onto.

"Boss, the targets are prepping for a warp."

Dingo, who had been staring holes into the Radar Screen, gave a massive click of his tongue. Without a word, he pushed his intent through the BISHOP interface, issuing commands directly to his ship. He knew Warp Jamming was out of the question at this range, so he focused every ounce of his concentration on tracking their Drive Particle trail.

You aren't getting away... I'll chase you to the ends of the galaxy and rip your lungs out.

In less than five minutes, his top-of-the-line tracking equipment successfully crunched the numbers on the three targets’ destination. Dingo’s face twisted into a shark-like grin as he ordered the entire fleet to jump to the coordinates.

However—

"Boss, the [DRIVE SPACE RESERVATION] was rejected. The target might be an Electronic Warfare Craft."

Dingo’s response to his subordinate's report was to scream, "You moron!" and deliver a heavy-booted kick to the table holding his display.

"If they were an Electronic Warfare Craft, how the hell did we find them in the first place? Think for two seconds, you idiot! The target is a large-scale ship!"

When Dingo had first spotted the trio, they were a long way off. If they’d had even a bottom-tier Electronic Warfare suite, they could have stayed hidden at that distance. Every scrap of Dingo's experience told him that an Electronic Warfare Craft was a physical impossibility.

It could be a decoy, but if they wanted to set a trap, they would’ve used the Abandoned Station. Unless they’re total morons, they’re definitely running.

Dingo’s face contorted with the sick joy of the hunt as he recalculated the jump. The targets had fled to a sector where Drive Particles were thin, meaning they couldn't chain-jump. That sector was his backyard; he knew every nook and cranny.

[IDENTIFICATION SIGNAL DETECTED: GENERAL BROADCAST]

Shortly after his fleet dropped out of warp a comfortable distance from the prey, his subordinate checked the scanners. Dingo raised a skeptical eyebrow. "What are they playing at?"

"Are they trying to pretend this is a coincidence? What? What's the angle here?"

It was obvious these rats had intercepted Dingo’s goods, and they were clearly trying to flee. Trying to act like they'd just bumped into him was too unnatural—and way too late.

"Whatever. Split into two groups. Let's bite their asses."

Dingo divided his forces, changing course to sandwich the targets. Just as he’d guessed, the primary target was a large-scale ship, and its sub-light speed was pathetic. They would definitely catch up before the prey reached a viable jump point.

"All ships, battle stations! Time for some traitor-flavored justice!"

"Sanctions for the traitors!" the fleet echoed back.

"The target is a big one, so expect them to shoot first! Prepare for Defense Maneuvers!"

On Dingo’s command, the fleet began to shift its orbit. Frigates tucked themselves behind the destroyers, and the destroyers began to slide laterally, keeping their armored noses pointed toward the enemy.

"...This is weird."

Five minutes passed since Dingo had set his Defense Formation. They were almost within firing range, yet the target hadn't fired a single shot. While long-range snipers existed, the target didn't look like a dedicated rail-gun platform. The scan results were clear: it was a standard Cruiser.

"...What are they doing? Are we just going to waltz right up to them?"

He muttered the question to himself, a cold shiver of dread crawling up his spine. His gut—the very thing that had kept him alive in the lawless reaches of space—was screaming that something was fundamentally wrong.

"Boss, orders? Should we open a channel?"

Dingo glanced at the display. A notification for a communication request from the target had been blinking incessantly for a while now.

"Should we talk to 'em? No... what the hell would we even say?"

He decided to ignore it. He ran through a dozen possible conversations in his head, and every single one of them ended with him killing them anyway. He wasn't in the business of granting mercy.

"All ships, prepare to fire! Target the Cruiser!"

The Turret Bays on all eighteen ships slid open, tracking the target. He’d briefly considered knocking out the escort destroyers first, but he canned that idea when he saw the enemy's formation. They were using a defensive layout similar to his own; if he didn't kill the small ships instantly, they’d just hide behind the Cruiser to let their Beam Shields recharge.

"FIRE!"

At Dingo’s roar, nearly a hundred blue Beams lanced across the void, screaming toward the Cruiser—and then, they went haywire.

"It's Beam Jamming! Recalibrate, now!"

More than half the shots veered off into space in wild, distorted arcs. The remaining Beams that managed to stay on target slammed into a ridiculously thick shield, resulting in nothing more than a few pathetic sparks. Since a volley that size should have melted a hole right through the ship, Dingo realized with a jolt that he was dealing with serious professionals.

"These guys are pros! Don't let up! You better be ready to die—"

Dingo’s rallying cry was cut short. One of the destroyers leading his formation suddenly, and without a hint of warning, vanished in a violent, four-way explosion.