Nine days, four hours and fifteen minutes after the Erinyes had left the fleet was when the first distress signal arrived.

Cyn was on the bridge at the time, overseeing a section of enlisted operators help bring the Erinyes out of lightspeed and back into real space. The destroyer came to impulse at the edge of an unnamed and unexplored system: simply a massive blue star, a belt of asteroids shadowed by its radiance, and the vast emptiness of space. A solar flare lashed out from the star, an unimaginably massive arm of azure plasma reaching out into the void. Cyn, and indeed most of the bridge operators, all leaned forward to take in the sight. They were perhaps the first and only people to ever see this. For a brief, delicate moment, Cyn's greatest regret was that he didn't have a camera to capture the spectacle.

Then, an alarm—and reality.

"Commodore," said a communications tech from the other side of the bridge, "We're picking up a signal. It's faint, but on an emergency frequency."

Near the back of the room, seated in a recently installed (and notably off-spec) seat, Commodore Kildare pulled down on the brim of his cap, covering an eye. "Very good. Isolate and play it, if you would."

The tech nodded and carefully turned a dial. The bridge grew unnaturally silent in anticipation. Then, the grating sound of grinding static and a distant whistle. The tech continued to work on the broadcast. The static began buzzing in marginally more predictable patterns. Gradually, a voice emerged from the fog: a man, his speech tumbling through in a panicked roll. "Mayd—Mayday—," cracked the voice over the bridge speakers, "This is mining— post GHF-4555—facing numer—hostiles. We're under heav—half a dozen Y-Win—they're not looking for any prioso—Please, if anyone can—please, please—butchery—please, we need—"

The man's voice was broken off by the sudden sound of an explosion. Then, nothing: only static, and the upwards tilted heads of the crew, listening to emptiness. The tech turned off the recording, returning the bridge to a proper silence. "It's set on a loop. Eventually, it will broadcast itself again."

Kildare sunk into his seat and steepled his fingers. "Interesting," he said, gears moving behind his eyes, "What else can you tell me? The location the signal is broadcast from? The time of original dissemination?"

"It's impossible to determine the time," said the tech, "But we're already narrowing down the point of origin."

"Keep at it," said Kildare, "In the interim: tell Commander Bronson that Alpha Squadron should be prepped and ready to fly within seven minutes."

A wave of tension rolled across the bridge, despite the best efforts for the junior staff to project an air of calm. Cyn felt it, too. The promise of combat. Behind him, Artemisia Thul leaned towards Kildare, speaking softly. "Time to mobilize, sir?"

"Patience, Commander," replied Kildare with a small wave of his hand, "One cannot act without information."

The door behind them abruptly opened, and Commander Guerrera stormed in, lit cigarra in hand. "What's this all about?" he asked.

Kildare did not look behind himself to recognize the commander. "Kindly refrain from smoking on my bridge, Mr. Guerrera." Had Cyn not been so focused on the moment, perhaps he would've caught the distant hint of displeasure in Kildare's tone. It was an unusual state for the old man's normally even disposition, like the venire of frost on an unexpectedly cold spring morning.

However, Cyn was not so perspective, and only saw Guerrera, barely restraining a curse, extinguish his cigarra on his rank insignia and pocket the stub. "What's the situation?" he repeated with some vexation.

"That's still to be determined," said Commander Thul.

"At least give me the clearance to start prepping Beta Squadron," said Guerrera. Cyn took a breath in immediate, instinctual anxiety at the words.

Kildare adjusted the brim of his hat. "That isn't yet necessary at this point."

Guerrera's face reddened—perhaps in anger, perhaps in embarrassment, or perhaps both—but before he could press on, the communications officer spoke up. "The signal's origin is triangulated."

"Capital," said Kildare, wholly turning his attention away from the commander, "Display."

A holoprojector from the ceiling beamed down a scratchy blue map of the sector. A nearby system was boxed-off as small, nearly unreadable characters followed to provide what little context there was. "The source of the signal is an asteroid mine, designated GHF-4555 by the Mining Guild. Independent, mostly specializing in palladium extracts," began the comm officer, "The records don't state whether or not it had any defenses."

Kildare did not sit up, but did narrow his eyes in thought. Commander Thul clasped her hands behind her back. "Specifically, what frequency is the signal being broadcast from?" she asked.

"The origin of the actual signal is a space buoy just a couple kilometers from the mine. It still appears intact."

"Curiouser and curiouser," said Kildare, "We're either dealing with unusually incompetent raiders or unusually savvy ones. Very well. We shall do our duty. Off display, and begin charting course. And, if must I add, beat to quarters," he said, the final sentence almost in passing.

Artemisia Thul hollered in response, her voice echoing in the cavernous bridge. "Beat to quarters!"

A low, wooping alarm sounded, and the bridge crew redoubled their work. Cyn recognized what this meant. Throughout the Erinyes, gunners were sprinting to their turbolasers, fire control began monitoring the hull's structural integrity, and engineers began overseeing the engine for combat level output. Their lives could be put on the line at any moment. All Cyn could do was to continue to serve in the position he was assigned as a naval officer, and oversee calculating the surprisingly fast trip that would be needed to jump to the mine. He would not be in his fighter: the idea simultaneously irritated and relieved him.

It was a quick and trivial measure for all pre-hyperjump calculations to result, and the Erinyes wasted no time to ignite her massive engines. There was a long second of anticipation, then the stars before them began to stretch away as the ship leapt into the swirling-blue space-between-space, rocketing towards its goal. It was nothing Cyn hadn't done over and over again, but this time was different. A bead of sweat trickled down from his temple and across his ear. He hazard a glance back. Kildare leaned into his seat with an effortless resolve, and Commander Thul hardly seemed impacted by this at all. Guerrera glowered. Cyn turned back before any of them could see him.

It took just minutes for the Erinyes to travel the thousands and thousands of kilometers between the star and the mining station. The crew braced as the glow of hyperspace dimmed and the vessel once more returned to impulse. All eyes were looking ahead, to see what awaited them. It was nothing surprising, and nothing good.

Their immediate sight was obscured by thousands of shards of metal and scrap, scorched and charred, and clearly all too recently. They must've been the remains of refining platforms and storage containers blown apart with a savage brutality. The fragments bounced off the Erinyes' hull harmlessly as the destroyer moved onwards to the heart of the mining operation. What remained of heavy freighter drifted past, the bottom of its hull blown apart and its cargo streaming out like half-eaten deer carcass abandoned by wolves. Cyn figured if there were life signs on board, one of the bridge operators would've scanned it and told them. No one spoke up.

The colossal asteroid that the mining station had been built into remained intact, but that was as good as the news got. The once sturdy hangers where once heavy lifters had brought minerals and supplies in and out had been annihilated under heavy blaster fire, and now were little more than festering, charred wounds on the face of the asteroid. Half-destroyed ships floated lifeless, caught in mid-escape just outside the mine. Cyn's eyes followed the side of the asteroid to where the habitation modules would be: these, too, had been gutted, perhaps with the miners still asleep in their beds. It wasn't just plundering. It was a slaughter, and Cyn felt a familiar rage begin to burn in the back of his head.

The bridge remained silent. Everyone sat still at their posts, tense and at the ready. Kildare drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. "Any sign of hostiles?"

"None, sir," called a voice from operations.

"Any friendlies? Is there anything out here that's still alive or intact?"

"Negative, sir," the ops officer responded, "Only the buoy."

"Strange, that," said Kildare, "Whoever went on this hit job were thorough to the point of pantomime villainy. And yet they leave the buoy to cheerfully broadcast the deed."

"Maybe they're going to spring a trap," said Guerrera, crossing his arms.

"Unlikely," responded Commander Thul, "If they were to hyperjump towards our location the buoy would pick up on their arrival before our scanners would. They'd lose the element of surprise."

"Not if they were hunting for smaller prey," replied Guerrera, "Or sabotaged the thing."

"Quite possible," said Kildare, leaning his elbow into the armrest, "More thoughts?"

This was just enough of an excuse for Cyn to speak. The words came unbidden, as though he couldn't hold them back even if he had wanted to. "It was the rebels," he said, his voice steady, yet dripping with malice, "They did this."

Kildare slowly arched a brow, mildly intrigued. Guerrera looked surprised at the initiative. Thul, however, was as unflappable as ever. "That's very unlikely," she said, genially, "Nothing about this attack lines up with the Rebellion's tactical doctrines."

Cyn clenched his fist. His mind wasn't cool enough to process what she had said, but Kildare's was. "I'd agree. The rebels wouldn't've hit the living quarters like this without good reason. What we're looking at are probably a particularly ruthless breed of pirate—although they certainly look well equipped for brigands."

Commander Thul nodded. "Given how few supplies there are this deep into the Rim, and the amount necessary to field this sort of strike team, I cannot imagine that they are stationed too far away."

"Damned raiders. They'll find more trouble than they bargained for from us. Mr. Nevader, start compiling a list of any recorded hyperjumps in the sector that we can pull from region beacons and buoys, and Mr. Ydale, begin a deep analysis of any com chatter that we can pick up, especially on black frequencies," Kildare pushed himself up from his seat. He stood upright, a feat that Cyn knew was difficult for the old soldier, given his complicated leg brace. If he was pained, though, he didn't show it. His face was half-hidden behind the wide rim of his hat, but even that much showed a resolve that scarce few could rival. "They won't be able to avoid us for long. The Erinyes is on the hunt."