NB: Everything below that you recognise from the TV series 'Firefly', including all intellectual and actual material, is property of Mutant Enemy Inc. and 20th Century Fox Entertainment yadda yadda yadda… Well, if that doesn't satisfy the Alliance, I don't know what will…
The Chronicles of Firefly: Redeemer
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Chapter 1: Don't Look in the Presents
It was late in the day cycle. Captain Phillips stifled a yawn, and drew the seat closer to the control console, his face illuminated by the variety of colourful glows coming from various equipment sensors and screens. This old tub of his didn't even have any radiation scanners, let alone a caffeine dispenser to hook himself up to. It looked like he was going to have to stay awake the hard way. His 7-shot 305 cal. Warrick & Warrick revolver was perched precariously on his lap, with a cleaning cloth and dust brush lying on top of the finely crafted pistol. This was the only thing he truly treasured, well, the only material object he truly treasured. Not his Trans-U transport ship 'Redeemer', not his large collection of captured Alliance equipment stored in the coolant compartment under his bed, not his 17th edition ICE-Breaker for hooking up to the Central Cortex, but his own personal firearm. To him, it was more than a weapon; it was an extension of his arm, able to deliver 'necessary force' up to, and including, one and a half miles away. Not that he ever would, he preferred to fight toe-to-toe, to see his enemy in the flesh and 'feel' their moves and strategies. Only cowards fight from a hillside a mile away from their enemy, and cowardice is not the way to win a battle. Ten years in the Independence Mechanised Infantry taught him that…
Gus wandered into the control room from the corridors that lead to the main cargo bay. He had sharp black hair, and even sharper black eyes. His white shirt contrasted sharply, and he looked far too snobbish for its grubby character. He held a data bulletin sheet in one hand and a cigar in the other. He was obviously sick of working and needed to let off some steam by telling the Captain just what was wrong with his plan this time, and was tradition every time they did a below-legal job.
"Gus… smoking… bad… don't…" Phillips murmured, tired of going over the same speech over and over with him. Not only did he not like the smoke, but it caused the air filters to break twice as quick. But Gus never listened, and now Phillips was just lecturing him to annoy Gus and amuse himself.
"Everything's accounted for… well, crate wise it is. I didn't look inside, I definitely didn't see the illegal laser weapons we are transporting to Waterville, which definitely don't look very expensive and worth our lives 100 times over!" He autonomously regurgitated. Some cigar ash dropped onto the deck.
"Good, because if you did, our employers wouldn't look too kindly on that. In fact, they might even decide that our heads and a nail on their wall go quite well together." Phillips was sick of Gus looking down on him, was sick of the old stifled air of pompousness around him, but maybe his shadiness most of all. He didn't see how this slightly short, almost creepy, dark haired snake could murder his parents just to get his hands on their credit details. He seemed more like the school snitch than an unsuccessful assassin. Gus began to retort.
"Crude and un-amusing, Phillips. Oh, posti scriptum, Tammi wants a word with you. Says that Nolan wants his engine parts yesterday, and she needs the funds to subscribe them before we reach Waterville Docks." There were so many grammatical and syntactical errors in that over-complicated announcement that Phillips didn't have time to correct him. And Gus didn't even say 'sir'. That still pissed Phillips off.
"Right, I'll go talk to her. Meanwhile, you can wander down to the airlock and try to get that faulty aerial to open up from the outside. Then report back…" As Gus left to perform his new duties, Phillips remembered the only reason why he hired that arrogant bastard. At least he's hard working. For a rich kid, he certainly did believe in the value of manual labour, and did almost any task Phillips asked him to, so long as it wasn't life threatening…
Swivelling back to the control yoke and its surrounding instruments, he glimpsed at a faint heat flutter on his short range sensors. Centring in for a closer look, the reader showed not just one, but two, medium sized long range patrol vessels, obviously Alliance, pathetically trying to hide in his engine wake. They were only a few miles back, and closing slowly. Activating the in-ship com on the wall, he yelled:
"We're being followed. Tammi, secure the loose cargo. Nolan, get in the engine room, maximise power in the evasive thrusters. Gus, when you get outside, try throwing yourself into space to get their attention and get them off our tail." He was met with affirmatives from all the crew, except Gus who gave a colourful rendition of 'go to hell'.
The fighters closed in, now aware that they had been spotted by the accelerating ship. The missile pods on their stubby wings swung down, and the four sets of three particle-missiles lit up, their glowing red lights like angry tiger eyes. Redeemer veered up, towards the ring of ice around a gas giant above them. Its three rear thrusters were glaring red like the missiles racks' big brother. She swung left to avoid a fast moving ice asteroid, and then slowly banked deeper into the belt. The two fighters were in close pursuit, pelting round the jagged clumps of frozen rock. They fired off their first volley of missiles. Explosions rippled across a large asteroid that the Trans-U had ducked behind. Chunks of ice were thrust away from their mother, which the Alliance fighters dodged with difficulty. A small boulder scraped a wing. The fighter recovered from the shock, but not before having to stop in front of a large ice asteroid, and reverse to swing around. By then, it was way too far behind to catch up again. The other fighter was closing the gap. Phillips was having a hard time trying to dodge rockets and asteroids, and his left thruster was starting to strain. He couldn't keep it up.
"Gus, we still got those empty crates from our last job?" Phillips yelled down the intercom.
"I believe so Phillips, do you want me to hide in one of them?"
"Just chuck 'em out the rear airlock and give those fascists something else to worry about…"
The fighter tailing the Redeemer fired another salvo at her, which managed to scrape her hull and implode a few dozen metres to her front-port side. In retaliation, the Redeemer's rear hatch opened, and a few steel crates shot out into the vacuum. The fighter pilot swerved sharply to avoid them, thinking they might be mined. Nothing happened. He redoubled his efforts and sped up again, firing off more missiles. More trash shot out his target. He simply sped right past him, veering slightly to avoid a crate shooting straight at him. Arming his only EMP homing torpedo, the fighter prepared to fire its disabling rocket at Phillips ship. More crates were thrown out its rear. This time, one crate seemed to glow. The fighter pilot squinted at it. A huge flash, like a nuclear bomb exploding in heaven, blinded him, causing him to scream until his ears hurt. He jabbed the missile launch button with his thumb. The smart bomb jetted towards the Redeemer. Phillips desperately tried to shake it, but it swerved around all obstacles, and finally detonated next to the ships engines. Everyone was thrown forward from whatever they were doing, the blast wave causing the ship to spiral out of the asteroid belt. Everything went dead. Phillips groaned groggily in his cockpit, collapsed over the controls. He hit the emergency restart button, and red lights flickered into life. Backup power was on, but it would be a long time until the thrusters were online again. He looked at the rear view camera. One of the fighters had now docked on top of the other, and both were doing an emergency dock with Phillip's ship. A dull thud shook him awake. He hit the intercom.
"Ahh… Gus, Tammi, Nolan, get your weapons and get to docking hatch two…"
He picked his own weapon off the deck, and staggered out of the cockpit. He took a left down the corridor, and met Tammi coming up from the cargo bay. She was dressed in dark black leathers of a pilot, breeches hanging by her sides, blonde hair cut short. She held up her shortened MP-90 to her chest, to show Phillips she was armed. Gus was a little behind her, a large bump on his head, and an ornate shotgun in his hands. They took a right, and ran past the crews cabins. At the junction which led to the engine room and hatch two, they took up firing positions and got some cover. Nolan got to them just in time. His mucky orange overalls so heavy greased they looked brown, and his Type-11 Berretta slipping around in his hands.
"Ready for fun, C'ptain!" He grinned. The hatch blew open, and two figures burst through, firing steady bursts from their sub-machine guns. Everyone, including Phillips, ducked behind their cover. Tammi fired blind around her cover, and then Nolan did the same. Gus was busy loading his weapon. The flashes from the guns hurt Phillips' eyes combined with the dim red lighting. He dared a quick look around at the attackers. The two pilots were standing behind the hatch edges, occasionally jumping out to fire back. One took out a small metal cylinder and was just about to press a red button on top. Phillips propped his pistol on his left arm and squeezed off a shot at the man's hand. A flourish of crimson painted the wall behind him, and he dropped the grenade. Phillips then shot the other pilot in the head, and made sure the wounded man wouldn't get up by blasting his kneecaps. All firing stopped. Phillips walked over to the screaming pilot on the ground. He was trying to hold his wounded hand with his good one, and hold his knees with his wounded hand. He was losing a lot of blood.
"Why are you here?" Asked Phillips calmly, although he already had a fairly good inkling.
"Screw you!" The man managed to shout through his helmet, the visor hiding his face. Phillips stepped on his knee, then asked again. It was no good, the man had passed out from the pain. Phillips removed the helmet, and then turned to his now adrenaline-filled crew.
"Tammi, take him to the infirmary, get some foam-bandage for his wounds, then stay with him 'til he wakes up. Gus, check their fighters and scavenge what you can get. Nolan, get us moving. They're sure to send more."
"It'll take about an hour or two, C'ptain, so long as you don't make me shoot anything again." Nolan strolled off to the engine room, and Gus ran off into the fighters. Tammi stood by Phillips for a minute.
"Think it's the guns they're after, sir?" Her strong frontier accent soothing Phillips ears.
"If they're guns at all. There're way too many crates for a few dozen laser weapons. It's probably drugs or something, a little job on the side for these dirty feds. But we won't find out 'til he wakes up." Phillips nudged the man with his foot. He threw the dead man back in the fighters, and helped Tammi take the wounded man to the infirmary. Gus was actually right for once, this job was a bad idea.