The blast rippled through the ship like a shockwave, knocking it off-course and generating a series of electrical sparks that burned to the touch. An alarm blared obnoxiously, signalling the workers to retreat to the Cryo-Bay lest they wanted to meet an unfortunate, humiliating, death. Their attacker’s onslaught was targeted at the front of the ship, where the control room was located.
A woman calmly navigated herself through the hysteric mess, her high heels clicking across the cold tiles. Her brown hair was wrapped up in a bun, her suit was meticulous, and her single, unobscured eye fixed on her destination. Her expression was stony, her mouth a thin line, and her mind whirring with counter-strategies. She arrived at a set of sliding bay doors which, with a metallic hiss of hydraulics, opened up to reveal the chaos within. Computers were stuttering and sparking violently, with technicians rushing about trying to fix the problem. Scientists ran schematics, weaving their way clumsily through the mess, with an officer in a suit barking orders. He tried to look commanding, but he was clearly out of his depth.
“Colonel Manton,” she said, her voice smooth, her words enunciated by a slight drawl. The Colonel snapped to attention immediately. She noticed his sloppy attempt to conceal his surprise. Clearly he needed more training. “Status report.”
“Dark Horde fleet, ma’am,” Manton, a veteran officer, reported. He pressed the side of his comms unit, and a holographic interface materialised in the air, with a detailed simulation of a spaceship shaped like a stave. Manton zoomed into the side of the ship, where oblong-shaped weaponry were glowing in red, and continued his report. “Scout ship with modified weaponry – including, it seems, a Psionic Pulsar Cannon.”
“Maldovar.” She mentally cursed the insipid blue dealer, briefly wrinkling her nose in disgust before slipping back into her professional facade. “Damage report,” she ordered, running her eye along the control room. She didn’t need a report to know that their situation was dire.
“The situation is dire,” Manton responded bluntly, and a small, wry smile crossed her lips. Another blast rocked the room. They had to take a second to compose themselves and drown out the warbling technicians. “The ship is in critical condition. They’re going to tear this ship apart for –”
“I know what they want,” she snapped, dispersing the simulation and turning around. “What of the girl?”
“She’s being secured now, ma’am.”
“Good,” she smiled cruelly at him. “Well then, head to the Cryo-Bay. We’ll have to land and make repairs. What’s the closest planet?”
“Sol 3,” he replied uneasily. Her nose wrinkled in disgust again.
“Earth,” she spat. “Of course.” She turned around. “Evacuate everyone you can. Get us on that planet.”
“One more thing,” Manton halted her. “They’re getting restless again.”
“I’ll talk to them,” she replied. “They’ll listen to me.”
“Are you sure?”
“They want this dreadful affair over with as much as we do.” Another explosion rocked the room and sent her crashing into the wall. Ignoring the sharp jab in her hip, she regained her composure and sneered. “Well then, time to run away, Colonel Runaway.”
With that, she turned and walked out the room. Manton watched her go with an irritated scowl, and turned back to address a scientist, who was desperately trying to hide his amusement. People had feared him once. He missed that power. “Have you got a landing location yet?” he barked with more force than was necessary.
“Yes, sir,” the scientist responded mockingly. Manton wondered if he could have him killed without the boss expressing her distaste.
“Well?” he prompted.
“Somewhere around the United Kingdom. Some insidious little Essex village called… Foxgrove.”
A woman calmly navigated herself through the hysteric mess, her high heels clicking across the cold tiles. Her brown hair was wrapped up in a bun, her suit was meticulous, and her single, unobscured eye fixed on her destination. Her expression was stony, her mouth a thin line, and her mind whirring with counter-strategies. She arrived at a set of sliding bay doors which, with a metallic hiss of hydraulics, opened up to reveal the chaos within. Computers were stuttering and sparking violently, with technicians rushing about trying to fix the problem. Scientists ran schematics, weaving their way clumsily through the mess, with an officer in a suit barking orders. He tried to look commanding, but he was clearly out of his depth.
“Colonel Manton,” she said, her voice smooth, her words enunciated by a slight drawl. The Colonel snapped to attention immediately. She noticed his sloppy attempt to conceal his surprise. Clearly he needed more training. “Status report.”
“Dark Horde fleet, ma’am,” Manton, a veteran officer, reported. He pressed the side of his comms unit, and a holographic interface materialised in the air, with a detailed simulation of a spaceship shaped like a stave. Manton zoomed into the side of the ship, where oblong-shaped weaponry were glowing in red, and continued his report. “Scout ship with modified weaponry – including, it seems, a Psionic Pulsar Cannon.”
“Maldovar.” She mentally cursed the insipid blue dealer, briefly wrinkling her nose in disgust before slipping back into her professional facade. “Damage report,” she ordered, running her eye along the control room. She didn’t need a report to know that their situation was dire.
“The situation is dire,” Manton responded bluntly, and a small, wry smile crossed her lips. Another blast rocked the room. They had to take a second to compose themselves and drown out the warbling technicians. “The ship is in critical condition. They’re going to tear this ship apart for –”
“I know what they want,” she snapped, dispersing the simulation and turning around. “What of the girl?”
“She’s being secured now, ma’am.”
“Good,” she smiled cruelly at him. “Well then, head to the Cryo-Bay. We’ll have to land and make repairs. What’s the closest planet?”
“Sol 3,” he replied uneasily. Her nose wrinkled in disgust again.
“Earth,” she spat. “Of course.” She turned around. “Evacuate everyone you can. Get us on that planet.”
“One more thing,” Manton halted her. “They’re getting restless again.”
“I’ll talk to them,” she replied. “They’ll listen to me.”
“Are you sure?”
“They want this dreadful affair over with as much as we do.” Another explosion rocked the room and sent her crashing into the wall. Ignoring the sharp jab in her hip, she regained her composure and sneered. “Well then, time to run away, Colonel Runaway.”
With that, she turned and walked out the room. Manton watched her go with an irritated scowl, and turned back to address a scientist, who was desperately trying to hide his amusement. People had feared him once. He missed that power. “Have you got a landing location yet?” he barked with more force than was necessary.
“Yes, sir,” the scientist responded mockingly. Manton wondered if he could have him killed without the boss expressing her distaste.
“Well?” he prompted.
“Somewhere around the United Kingdom. Some insidious little Essex village called… Foxgrove.”