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"There it is!"

Stripes' soft, fierce cry cut through the tense quiet aboard the ship that had once – many, many years ago – gone by the name of the York. Now, in the service of Section 31, it appeared on spaceflight registration lists under the name of a ship that had been consigned to history years ago; but one of the crew preferred the original name and no-one else had any preferences, so they called it the York between themselves.

"Got you, you bastards," breathed Pard.

The man sprawling beside her neither blinked nor moved, for his finger was already crooked around the trigger of the phase rifle, but she felt his previously diffuse concentration narrow into a single arrowhead of predatory intention.

Opposite them, Spots gently and unhurriedly collected the tiny finch that had been hopping about on his own rifle and restored it to its temporary cage.

Leo, at the weapons array, quietly brought the cannons online and gestured Jag forward to take his place; this was about to become a job for the specialist. The ship they'd been pursuing was too well shielded to be destroyed outright by the York's cannons, even if that had been the intention, but the exchange of fire they'd had two days ago had damaged both vessels. The prey had recovered first and made its escape, but not only were its weapons severely damaged but leaking plasma exhaust had shown up on the scanners and led the pursuers to this supposedly empty asteroid field; and after that, it was just a matter of time and patience, waiting while the sleek, dark-hulled ship cruised among the drifting rocks like a hungry shark through a kelp-forest.

The asteroid field was all that was left of the single planet that had once circled the nameless white dwarf star whose glare made the surfaces brilliant and the shadows impenetrably black. It was a poetically monochrome landscape, but a nightmare to find anything in by sight.

Unfortunately, many of the asteroids were metal-heavy, sending back confusing signals to the scanners searching for a metal hull. The onboard computers were busy examining the camera feeds, hunting for shapes or reflections that might correspond with anything too smooth or uniform to be natural – anything that might be a part of a ship lurking in hiding or waiting in ambush. They had far greater capacity to recognise and identify even a few centimetres of the edge of a fin or the wink of light off a fragment of hull plating than a human eye that can only focus on one part of the picture at a time.

"Remember, we don't want to blow them up by accident," the squad's leader reminded both his pilot and his marksman. "And don't force them into an asteroid. This is a boarding mission. They've got important cargo."

"Wilco, skipper! – Ow! Fuck!" The back of the seat (which had seen many, many better days) wasn't much protection from a sharp jab with the muzzle of a phase rifle, even if you were expecting it because Brits have no sense of humour and with Jag otherwise occupied, Pard felt herself obliged to deliver retribution on his behalf.

Now, it took precious seconds for the prey to realise the predator had tracked them down. Engines whose exhaust ports had been closed to conceal the betraying heat signatures were suddenly exposed again, and the thermal sensor monitors lit up. Stripes, concentrating on anticipating the trajectory the fleeing ship would take when it broke from cover, was too busy with his instruments to pay any attention to the lean figure in the seat alongside him, all joking now set aside as he prepared the ship's weapons for action.

Behind them, Spots was going through the belts laid out, making his usual last-minute routine of checking that all the personal weapons in them were ready for use; they always were, because the team were professionals, but that was just his 'thing'. So it was only Leo, picking up Jag's phase rifle, who saw the brief glance Pard and its owner shared, and the way that almost in unison they licked at the air, their smiles like shared snarls. That was their 'thing', and everyone did what got them ready for battle. He himself wore a button badge on his shirt's breast pocket, so old and worn that you could hardly work out what had originally been on it, and always turned it upside down. He did so now, so as not to have to think about it later.

Whatever worked, when there might be killing to be done.

In such an environment, speed was almost as dangerous as the enemy's weapons. One could kill quite as well as the others, for the asteroids – ranging in size from a pea to a huge apartment block – were in constant motion, driven from one collision into another in an eternal dance powered by their own momentum and the energy transferred during each impact. Either ship, struck by any one of the careering lumps of rock, would have sustained serious damage at best. Caught in a collision, they would have been pulverised instantly.

The enemy ship had a good pilot. But for all that the man at the York's helm looked like an undernourished urchin and wore a knitted orange woollen hat with a darn in it, he flew the ship as though he was a part of her. His hand on the rudder had the delicate, ruthless precision of a surgeon as he slid the craft through gap after gap that had his comrades' breath suspended, and one where even Leo was observed to shut his eyes

But eyes could not be kept closed for long, for the enemy was constantly glimpsed and lost, glimpsed and lost again, fleeing desperately through the reeling boulders. At each glimpse the immensely sophisticated tactical array pinpointed possible strike points, and the human brain manning it had to make split-second decisions that factored in the risks of a hit. If it had simply been a kill the pursuit would have been far shorter, for there were several occasions when the exposed exhausts offered a clean shot and a plasma cannon blast into either of them would have taken out the engine, the rest of the ship disintegrating around it. Time and again, however, the proximity of some menacing lump of rock against which a crippled ship might smash itself to pieces stayed Jag's hand even from a strike that would merely disable.

Whatever this ship was carrying, it was valuable. The team were available for any kind of duty that Section 31 required, almost invariably tasks that were 'beneath' the remit of your standard Starfleet vessel's crew, and their experience with hunt and destroy made it pretty well a given that they'd be tasked with this particular job. But though the hunting had been accomplished successfully, the 'destroy' half of the equation was emphatically not required. Which made everything that much more complicated, and so it seemed as though many, many moments passed while the orange glow of the prey's exhaust ports was lost and found, lost and found again among the asteroids and the crazy dipping and swooping and swerving of the York was enough to make one seasick.

But suddenly:

It was too brief a window of opportunity, too quick a movement, for any cry of triumph. The shifting shadowscape was lit by a flare of concentrated energy as a plasma bolt tore through the intervening space.

Someone must have made some attempt to repair the damaged weapons, because almost in the same instant a missile sped back towards them. But a spur of a wildly-rotating asteroid intervened just in time and the warhead exploded against it.

Stripes had already plotted an evasion course around the asteroid, but the sudden explosion made the York shudder violently and half a dozen alarms blared as the polarised plating of her dorsal hull absorbed not only a good portion of the shockwave but the impact of the debris. Still, it held – well, most of it did; the plating was less effective against solid material than at absorbing energy, and there would probably need to be at least some repairs before they could head for home, for certainly there were warning signs indicating that some areas had been holed and decompressed. But when she emerged from the cloud of debris she was still fully functional, which was more than could be said for the ship they were pursuing. The shot had taken out her starboard thruster and cost her half of her manoeuvrability; not to mention that the port close by had buckled and with the engine gases on that side unable to vent properly, the engine itself would have to be immediately powered down before the buildup blew it to smithereens – and the ship with it.

Partially crippled and now in extreme danger from the asteroids, the enemy ship had no choice but to flee the field for the safety of open space. Transferring all defensive power to the forward hull, Stripes hurled York in pursuit.

With one engine down, the chase was a short one. Spots was closest to the comms array, and opening all channels to hail in all languages currently stored on Starfleet's database, he ordered the enemy to stand down and prepare to be boarded.

"If you will comply, you will not be harmed," he concluded grimly. "But we will use terminal force if necessary."

Another torpedo was the only response. A flip of York's wing and it sped past and flew on to vanish among the asteroids astern, where it probably contributed briefly to the chaos there.

Jag shrugged. R-class freighters were small and fast and reasonably well-armed, but they had weak spots if you knew where to aim for and had time to place your shot carefully. There was a place on each flank just under a cowling where the emission of surplus coolant gases from a vent there meant that the plating had to be kept thin to allow it to escape. The plasma cannon spoke again, and one of the external fuel lines that also ran just behind the starboard cowling ruptured and began spraying a mist of its contents into space, condensing instantly into a trail of frozen pellets in hard vacuum.

Another hit would have ignited it, but the threat to the ship itself from the resulting blowback would have been acute; an explosion could easily destroy it, depending on how the internal ducts ran and how many of them were locked off to keep pressure off the now partly deactivated engine. The energy in their shielding now presented a huge threat to their survival, and the failsafe built into the fuel system immediately shut off power to the hull plating before a spark could jump across the ruptured line, meet the bursting fuel and ignite it.

The ship was now defenceless. It could still fire, but it only had half speed.

"Tell them if they piss us about any more I'll take out the other port," he said flatly.

=/\=

Spots modified the message slightly, but the point got through. A sullen voice through the comm said that they would co-operate, and the team finished 'suiting and booting' as Stripes gently brought the York in to kiss against the freighter's docking port.

Sensors around the door registered the seal effective and docking clamps were now securely fastened to the other ship's hull. Nothing short of explosive charges would separate the two ships now until the undocking sequence was followed from York's cockpit.

"No weapons powered up." Pard checked her scanner. "Seven bio-signs. Non-human. Don't recognise the species."

Leo thumbed the comm. "All personnel to remain away from the docking port. Do not offer resistance at any point. That includes the presence of all hand weapons and any item that could be used for hostile purposes.

"You have had one warning. This is the only one you get.

"We are about to board your ship and search it. You will co-operate with every request, and if you do, you will not be harmed."

He nodded.

York's outer hatch slid back with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the narrow stretch of flexible material that could adapt itself to any irregularity or curve of another ship's hull and still form a seal. In this case it was only a couple of centimetres across at its widest point, but it was still briefly uncomfortable to step through it; though it was radiation-proof it provided almost no protection from the white glare of the sun, and the comparative dimness of the ship beyond it could have harboured any number of unpleasant surprises to take advantage of the momentary dazzle.

But the single alien waiting in the corridor beyond the debarking area was clearly resigned, if sullen. Its gender, if it had one, was unclear, but it was humanoid, though not prepossessing. It was tall and lanky, and its skin was heavily scaled; fringes of what looked like seaweed hung from its lower jaw, and its entire cast of face suggested – in human terms – a tendency to look on the worst side of events.

Maybe that was just a first impression, but its opening words seemed to confirm it. "My name's Lith. I'm a legitimate trader. This is a peaceful ship," it moaned, eyeing the well-armed boarding party with what seemed like dismal fascination. "All our paperwork is in order. We've nothing worth looting…"

"Then you won't mind us checking your cargo." Leo lowered his rifle but didn't put the safety back on.

"This ship cost me my entire life savings!"

"You've still got your ship. We want one thing you're carrying. Hand it over peacefully and you can go."

Lith waved its hands desperately. "If you'll let us hand it over I'll cut you in on a share of the profits!"

"We don't want your profits. You know what we want. Take us to your cargo bay."

"And pack in whining." Pard's thumb switched her rifle setting a few times. Enough to leave it somewhat doubtful – to anyone but herself and probably Jag – what it was on when she stopped.

Their host still seemed disposed to argue. It reluctantly led the way to the cargo bay, and along the way they encountered several other crew members of the same species, all clearly resentful but not daring to intervene. No weapons were in evidence and no-one sprang from hiding.

The cargo bay door was reinforced and secured by what looked like several additional locks.

"Ooh, let me," purred Jag, running his free hand over the case of explosives he had over one shoulder. "I haven't caused any explosions for ages."

"Could have fooled me." Spots looked sideways at him.

"I'm easily pleased," Pard explained.

"Your choice." Leo's bass rumble sounded almost bored as he looked at the alien. "You open the door or he does."

Lith seemed close to tears by this time – if it possessed lachrymal glands – but complied. Several of the locks appeared bio-activated, though they probably wouldn't have resisted explosives. Only a couple of moments passed before the door swung open.

All of the boarding party had rifles levelled, just in case their scanners might somehow have missed a threat, but the compartment seemed empty of menace. There were quite a number of cases of different shapes and sizes, varying from one that would have held a flitter in comfort to several that looked as if they might contain precious stones.

"I'll keep watch. You can stay here too." Spots turned the muzzle of his rifle to their hapless host. "Just in case anything goes wrong."

"I've co-operated," it whined. "Just be careful, will you? I've got some valuable stock in here."

That wasn't unlikely. Class-R freighters tended to carry smaller items, mostly because they were small and fast and rather hard to see on a scanner that tended to concentrate on larger vessels. One reason why they were popular with smugglers.

Leaving their comrade to stand guard over their hostage, the other three made their way into the cargo hold. Most of the items were unmarked except for a hastily scrawled symbol that presumably identified them against a manifest, but Leo seemed to know what he was looking for. After pausing beside several cases, he stopped beside one that looked like a smooth grey metal drum, a little more than a metre high and rather less than that in diameter. "This is the one."

The watching Lith waved its half-webbed hands as though disappointed he hadn't picked something else, but glanced at Spots' rifle and shrank into miserable resignation. "Please be careful," it moaned.

Leo had brought an anti-grav device strapped to his back. He secured it to the case and activated the control, and with a low hum the case lifted a couple of centimetres from the floor. Using the handles, it was now possible to simply move the thing along with almost no effort.

Looking even more dismal than evolution had made it to begin with, the alien accompanied them – whether it wanted to or not – back towards the docking port. There were no other crew members visible now, and the York team exchanged glances. It was always far better when the enemy were in plain view.

But though they maintained the utmost care and vigilance on the way there, the corridor outside the boarding area was empty and innocent. It appeared that the rest of the crew had simply accepted the situation and made themselves scarce.

At least, that was until Lith pressed the button on the control panel by the door. A terrific alarm went off and at the same moment a panel flew open in the ceiling and several weapons were poked through and started firing.

If the Section team had been less alert and less quick off the mark, there would undoubtedly have been casualties. But as it was they dodged and rolled, bringing their own weapons up to return fire. A hoarse scream suggested Lith had been hit, possibly by one of his own crew's guns but nobody was asking questions as he pitched face down on the decking.

A body fell partly out of the opening, mostly blocking it. Pard darted over to slam her hand on the large button that opened the docking port and dodged a shot from someone firing around the corpse. The attackers were using projectile weapons, which was why Stripes hadn't been able to detect energy signatures and warn them.

Jag had taken cover behind the drum. He sneaked a look around the side of it and a bullet whipped though his hair, grazing his scalp. Blood immediately poured down his face and with a particularly virulent curse he wiped it away, smearing it on the metal in front of him as he rested his hand on it to steady himself from the sudden wash of nausea and rage. He wasn't dead and scalp wounds always bleed a lot, and he had to be calm… After a moment, he risked showing himself at the other side, just long enough to get off a shot in return.

The sniper above had been waiting for him to do it. Their shots were simultaneous, but though the bullet was travelling faster than the speed of sound, phase energy travels at just under light speed.

By the time the bullet left the muzzle of the gun, the energy from the phase rifle blast was already sizzling through the nerves and muscles of the arm that held it. The gun canted slightly down and sideways even before the body began to topple.

The projectile, tipped with duranium and spinning from the rifling on the barrel designed to give it maximum accuracy, just missed the thick band of the anti-grav and thumped into the side of the drum instead, opening a hole in it.

It's hard to see what you're looking at unless you actually know what it is. Pard, who was next closest, got only an impression of something flowing out of the hole – something grey, that moved as quickly and smoothly as a lizard, and headed straight for the bloody handprint Jag had left on the drum. Then, even as Jag himself slithered backwards away from it, his face a print of fear and horror, it leaped at him –

– And disappeared.