Left, right, left, right. Sweat ran in rivulets down Ambrose Hammersmith's face and neck, while his tight sleeveless vest was drenched such that it clung to his chiselled torso. His muscles didn't ripple, they roiled with a storm's fury. The weighted bag juddered under his every blow while he wove from side to side and unleashed a salvo of jabs. With each strike the rhythmic percussion of thuds accentuated the dance of raw melee combat. Left, right, left hook, guard up, sidestep, right. After this final, brutal punishment the bag caved around his fist bulging outwards with a sudden rush. Hammersmith effortlessly halted the recoil with one hand, while he wiped the other through his close-cropped blonde hair. The bag was affixed to both the 'floor' and 'ceiling' by a pair of flexible rods to prevent the disagreeable influence of virtual forces. The Curveball's gymnasium was mounted within a centrifuge, allowing earth standard gravity to be mimicked. This had the benefit of allowing the marines to maintain muscle mass and combat readiness during patrol, but also presented certain physiological side effects. Undesirable ones given that the relatively small size of the chamber called for rapid rotation. That's why it had been retrofitted to house a med-bot delivery system. Curtesy of the ingenious engi and their affinity for nanotechnology, the med-bots only had to be administered for the marine to undergo a series of seemingly innocuous adaptations that rendered them resistant to the worst symptoms. After an about hour the PDA around his wrist buzzed, requesting his presence on the bridge. He vacated the gym and engaged his mag-boots. The return to microgravity was still disorienting, but the remaining med-bots in his system more than compensated for this and he made it to the bridge in little over a minute. After relieving Chief Officer Faye Maverick of command, he was informed of the sudden arrival of another ship within sensor range.

*Unregistered vessel, this is the captain of the escort Wicked Curveball. We have responded to a distress beacon from this station and a compliment of marines has been dispatched to neutralise an unidentified hostile threat. The station's auto-dock guidance systems appear to be offline and no one is responding to our hails. Please acknowledge.*

The silent ship edged inexorably closer. Hammersmith stood on the centre of the deck, legs spaced apart, hands clutched behind his back. "Raise shields and divert power from non-essential systems," he said, and his crew obliged with clockwork efficiency. The distant vessel had matched their course, and a series of energy spikes indicated that they had mirrored the Curveball. Still her captain remained silent. On the main display, the ship loomed. Her hull was painted in a vibrant orange and decorated with lateral turquoise stripes. An insignia Hammersmith didn't recognise was proudly displayed on the hull, an eagle with the characters MFK stamped over it. The ship looked to be of human design, and Hammersmith called Slocknog, the ship's slug crewmember, to him. From within a writhing mucosal sac in the bridge's periphery, a mottled brown creature with wet skin plopped to the decking and stretched languidly before sliding towards Hammersmith. "Yesss my ilustriousss and wise captain?" He was of diminutive stature for his race, though no less coated in their characteristic film of slime. He dithered and bowed, four eyestalks drooping as though to denote subservience. His wet lisp bypassed Hammersmith's ears to tickle his brain directly. Curse telepathy. Hammersmith didn't like having his cerebellum caressed by the slug's telepsychic appendages, but given that this was its only method of communication he grudgingly permitted it. Slocknog had proved his worth time and again, and had the captain's hesitant respect. "QUIT BLOWING HOT AIR OR I WILL SEE TO IT PERSONALLY THAT YOU TAKE A NICE INVIGORATING BATH IN A VAT OF SALT!" Slocknog rose to his full height, approximately 4'2", and watched the captain through sly, unblinking eyes.

"Very well, Captain."

"When this vessel is in range of your telepathy, I want you to determine the composition of her crew. We have another three breaching pods primed, though truth be told I was holding them in reserve for the station, and if this DAMNED SITUATION can be resolved the peaceful way I'll make sure that it is. DIIISMIIISSED!"

Slocknog scrutinised the captain. His ability to read the thoughts of these primitive apes wasn't as acute as his brethren, but the visions of bloodlust and glorious slaughter aboard the ship, should things turn nasty, were writ in gory detail in the captain's mind. "Yesss. I approve of the peasssful way." He hissed to himself from within his own gelatinous mind as he slithered back to his cocoon on the far end of the bridge, painting the deck beneath him in a viscous iridescence. "CADETS MONTGOMERY AND THOMASZ." Bellowed the captain. Two slim-built youths bobbed uncertainly to him and spectacularly failed to mask their terror. The captain assumed what he thought was a comforting smile. Thomasz, the lankier of the pair, reeled back on his heels while Montgomery sent a silent prayer to whichever god oversaw this particular sector of space. Hammersmith gestured to the sticky trail left in Slocknog's wake. "There're ample supplies in the storage cupboard. If this deck isn't gleaming ON THE DOUBLE, by the gods I will no longer be the portrait of benevolence I am now. CHOP CHOP cadets."

The captain turned and assumed his characteristic stance. "Weapons, prime the ion charges. If the bastards ignore our second transmission, make ready to fire on my mark."

Meanwhile, a senior engineer studied the holographic display of the approaching vessel and its systems diagnostics with growing concern. It had some serious hardware.

"Captain," she began, "I don't think our ion batteries will be enough to –"

Then the main display flickered with an alert. "Captain, the ship is hailing us. Do we accept?"