Slave Runner

[Crash Calestorm 0]

The following log takes place just before our 06.27.11 Sim...

 

The main hanger bay of the USS Comanche Creek was hopping with activity as Commander Wesley and Captain Calestorm entered through a side access hatchway. One of the senior deck hands bellowed “Attention on Deck!” at the appearance of the senior officers.

 

The captured shuttle sat off to one side, firmly secured with tow cables and two red-shirted guards standing by. Ship’s tracking programs and sensors hadn’t picked up anything funny, but a team of Science geeks and Engineering knuckle draggers were already checking out the tech and systems to be on the safe side.

 

As they passed the vehicle, the captain ran a practiced eye over the shuttle; Orion build, older civilian model, about twenty years old give or take. The hull plating was the standard blue-gray colored steel, some of the plates mismatched or scored by time to a light gray. Heavily modified, it had a weapons suite, new engines, and retrofitted for one purpose: slave transport. The cargo hatch and access ramp were wide open, and held nothing – at least living – inside. Several transport crates were fastened inside the hold, with various amounts of dirt, grime, wear and tear.

 

Some yokel had even taken the time to decal a woman of indeterminate species on the side of the forward plating, clad in a bikini, wielding a whip, and draped in chains. Oh, that was soooo attractive and not demeaning at all.

 

Crash glanced at Scooter as the two women closed the distance across the decking; partly to gauge her second in commands reaction, partly to see how she was holding up. The Ex Oh didn’t talk about it much, but had spent a good deal of her formative years with a slaver crew as one of the girls. There were quite a few Orion women who worked on slaver crews or ran a crew themselves, but a good portion of those that worked the so called ‘field’ were men. Wesley had had the unfortunate luck to be in the employ of her brother, who was not a very nice man.

 

The captured Orion was down on his knees, his hands clasped behind his head. A security detachment held phasers on him. His hands were clasped to the back of his head. The CMO had arrived and stood off to one side, near one of the guard officers.

 

The two command officers stood impassively in front of the captured slaver. No one spoke, and the next minute or so was tense. The only sounds carrying across the deck were the clang of tools on metal and shouts from the deck mechanics as star fighters and equipment were repaired or worked on.

 

An average sized male in his mid to late thirties, the Orion looked the captain still clad in her tribal leathers and the commander in her Fleet uniform up and down, the beads in his dread locked black hair jingling slightly with the movement.

 

The Orion slaver finally leered and spoke. “Well, I must say you both would fetch a good price on the open market.” The articulate voice was at odds with the professional ‘space pirate’ clothing that he wore.

 

Resisting the urge to belt him in the jaw, Crash spoke coldly to the slaver. “Captain Ashton Calestorm. Welcome to the USS Comanche Creek. You better damn well speak only when you’re spoken to.”