Escaped from Prince Fallan on Darson, Sascha finds himself struggling to understand and survive in the universe into which he has been thrust. It will take all of his skills, both those of a Sylph and those of a Shootist, to overcome the challenges in his path.

A Sylph Protected / A Shootist Avenged
by Arcie Emm

A Sylph Protected

Sascha focussed on the loading skiffs as they moved about the hold in their automated unconcern, content to be what they were. They did not need him, watching from above in the observation bubble, pretending that his presence was required, even though he knew it to be a lie. True, something could go wrong, maybe a skiff going out of control or breaking down, he was ready to react if that happened, had trained for it. Yet Sascha understood that either problem occurred, it would be a first, not just since he had come aboard The Lady Tramp, but since she had been placed into service. In actuality he was hiding.

Usually Sascha would be with Foster, in the freighter’s nav/con centre, whenever they were in orbit over a planet or moon to pick up a load of ore. While Foster dealt with the shuttle pilots and custom officials, Sascha would use a console to search the local airwaves, seeking anything to entertain the two of them during their long hauls between stops.

However, this planet was different. From here he wanted nothing, it had already given, and taken, too much.

Darson. The planet of his birth, where he had been made him into the man he was today. Though to look at him most would not know that, instead they would see a pretty little doll, and only the most observant would be able to see that he was a doll who had been taken out of his original wrapping, played with and discarded. Only an escape, over five of the most hellish days he hoped never again to experience, had stopped him from being discarded for good. Yet escape did not mean he was free.

Almost a year after his flight, Sascha had done little more than exchange the luxurious walls of Prince Fallan’s palaces for the spartan hull of The Lady Tramp. Though now he was in a prison of his own choice, unprepared as he felt to face normal society. He had made brief forays from the ship, at any number of the ports at which the Tramp had docked, yet the attention directed at him had always made him uncomfortable, in a hurry to return to the ship. Sascha did not believe Foster’s contention that it was because he was pretty, the sylph felt that everyone saw him as a freak.

How had Lieutenant Bandle even begun to consider that Sascha could survive on his own?

Actually, Sascha did not need to ask, he knew the answer. He and Ivar were two very different people. The lieutenant was not the type to be paralyzed by fear, he would always go forward, attack. Any body looking askance at Ivar would be met with cold challenge. It was not in Bandle to fear others, he made them fear him.

Realizing this, Sascha had been wary of Ivar’s plan for the sylph’s escape from the moment he had heard it. The first part, getting Sascha off planet, made sense. Good tactics from someone immersed in the tactical world of platoon command. On the other hand, the strategy for Sascha’s future had been lacking, relying on the sylph to navigate the unknown on his own. It relied upon Sascha having strengths that knew that he did not have, to navigate an unknown world, find authorities, declare himself a refugee, and place himself at their mercy. The plan was idiotic. Sascha had determined to abandon it at the first chance.

The chance came earlier than expected, soon after Sascha had been deposited aboard The Lady Tramp by a shuttle, similar to the one currently unloading its cargo. Once aboard the ore freighter it had not taken Sascha long to learn that Foster was the ship’s entire crew. He determined that Foster was shy and awkward, not particularly handsome, but eminently safe.

Meanwhile Sascha, despite the travails of his escape from Denj, was a fantasy come true for the lonely pilot. Unlike the self-confident Ivar Bandle, Foster did not stand a chance. Within hours Sascha had seduced him, and by the time they next hit planet fall, Foster had decided to keep the sylph around. Seeing as this is what he had wanted, Sascha readily accepted the offer. It had proven beneficial to both, Sascha was given an opportunity to learn, at his own pace, about the world beyond his silken walls. Meanwhile, Foster enjoyed the companionship Sascha offered and was thrilled to be, for the first time in his life, the envy of his friends.

Now they were back where it had all started. Sascha had not been pleased to hear that the next pickup was to be at Darson. He was scared that someone on the planet would find out about his presence, that he would be taken into their custody and turned over to the vile Prince Rudo. Foster trying to convince him that nothing would happen had led to the first fight between the two, something for which neither social neophyte was prepared. So the last few days had been an uncomfortable period, as each tried to avoid the other in the common areas of the big ship.

Now Sascha was beginning to worry that Foster had been correct. The transfer would soon be complete and still nothing was out of the ordinary; no sudden boarding by armed troops and no announcement of another vessel approaching. Just the skiffs doing their jobs. Skiffs that were beginning to return to their recharge stations, as they finished the loading. Then an ringing alarm announcing the uncoupling of the shuttle and the closing of the cargo door. Hearing the rumbling sound of the ship’s massive engines throttle up, he felt the subtle shift that told him The Lady Tramp was no longer drifting. Only one thing was left to prove that the visit was complete.

“All done Chacha, we’re on our way to the Transition point.”

At that moment Sascha realized that he had been wrong. He decided he better come up with something to get back on Foster’s good side, fortunately he had an idea.

* * *

Foster Lansdowne let lose a sigh of relief as he started his ship towards the coordinates where they could make the jump into Transition, that strange otherverse through which his ship’s Flamon engines would push them from point to point of the real universe. He was glad to have been proven right, for he had staked much of his future happiness on his statement to Sascha that everything would be alright, that this was just a regular pickup. But what else could he have told her? Definitely not the truth.

He could not tell her that the Darson pick up was the company’s shit duty. Piss off headquarters and they would send you to this turd of a planet, out on the outer-reaches of the boondocks of space. The first time Foster had been here was the result of too much whiskey and not enough brains, yet he had proven luckier than he deserved. It was that trip when Sascha, his wonderful little Chacha, had ended up in his life. Something that had for a brief period led to other company pilots wanting to go to Darson, each hoping to luck out with their own Sascha. But when nobody struck gold, it had reverted back to the haul nobody wanted.

When he had told her it was where they were headed, Foster had not been surprised by her reaction. So he had lied, told her everything would turn out okay, that she should not worry. It was not a lie in that he knew he lied, however, neither had he known if he told the truth.

Therefore, it felt good to be proven right. To have his cowardly gamble, to not tell the Sascha that why they were being punished, by being sent to Darson. If he told her that, then he would have to tell her why, but Foster could not tell her that he was being punished because of Sascha’s residence on The Lady Tramp. Though there were no rules in place, United Mining frowned on its pilots maintaining full time companionship on their freighters. Over the last couple of months Foster had been facing subtle pressures to end this flaunting of custom. No, he could not tell her that, she may think they should give in to United. That would be terrible.

Sascha was the best thing to ever happen to him, she was perfect. Incredibly gorgeous, but willingly to accept the long periods of silence that was his nature. Until she felt enough was enough and drew him out of his shell, almost magically bringing undreamed pleasure to his body. From the moment that she had seduced him, it had only gotten better and better, as she sought to please him. There were moments when his conscience would kick in, where he would half-heartedly protest that he expected nothing from her, that he was just glad for her company. Yet all she needed to do, was to tell him, in her adorable voice, that she liked pleasing him and the protests would die away.

Thus he had found the last few days very difficult, he had come to depend upon her presence. He missed her voice, her softness, her warmth, her touch, everything about her.

Now with Darson receding in the distance, he hoped that separation would end. More so, he decided he would make it end and began flicking through the ships cameras, trying to find her, so that he could go to her, and make things better. Finding her, his first thought was how unflattering the baggy coveralls were on her amazingly, tight, little body. Then he looked at her face and tried to guess her mood. Poor as he was at reading people, Foster thought he saw determination on Sascha’s face and in her walk. He watched as she walked the halls leading to her quarters, until she reached its hatch and entered.

He tried to determine what her mannerisms and destination meant, to him she seemed to walk with a purposeful stride. Maybe she was still mad at him, if so it likely was not a good time to bother him. Plus Sascha had gone to her room and Foster had promised to never bother her when she was there, since she deserved a place to call her own. Best to wait a little longer before he approached her. She was likely even now changing into something nicer before coming to end the fight?

Yes, it was best to wait.

* * *

As he got closer to his quarters Sascha could not help worrying about the damage his mistake had caused. Why had he forgotten his place? Would he be able to repair the rift he had caused?

Foster had always been really nice to him, never getting mad like Prince Fallan. But Sascha had never given him a reason to get mad, until now. How would the normally mellow pilot react? Sascha doubted it would be with violence, as would have likely been the case if he had done something that would have made the volatile prince angry. Yet violence was preferable to other punishments, such as banishment from The Lady Tramp.

Sascha was aware that Foster’s employers at United Mining were not pleased with their pilot’s decision to have a shipboard companion, though he was not aware that their trip to Darson was due to this displeasure. Now the sylph worried that his cold treatment of the man would provide an incentive for Foster to decided it was not worth the conflict to keep Sascha aboard the ship. Unprepared to survive on his own, Sascha felt he needed to prove to Foster why it was worthwhile to keep him on the ship.

Reaching his quarters, usually a place where he kept his clothes, not a place of sleep like it had been during the trip to Darson, Sascha disgustedly stepped out of his ill-fitting coveralls and pulled his long hair from its tight bun. What had he been thinking? By the time he was in his teens, his trainers had drilled into him the need to look perfect at all times. Not falling prey to his own desires had been one of the things that had separated him from his brothers during the competition to win Prince Fallan’s favour. Yet here he was, no longer a silly child, making the same foolish mistake. Sascha knew that he would have to hurry to make things right.

Nude, he stepped into the vibra-shower for a full forty-five second cleaning cycle. Powdering his hairless body with the sweet smelling and tasting powder Foster had bought him at a shop on Pylong 5, Sascha moved to his closet. It was full of costumes, he purchased for Foster’s pleasure, and reached in to take out the new, Texlaxian Dancing Girl, barely-visible leotard. Then he paused.

His sight had been drawn to another of the bagged costumes, one that had been in the closet as long as any, yet one Sascha had not been willing to wear. When he had stumbled upon Foster’s pornography, Sascha had found that the pilot’s favourite character, based on whose scenes had been watched most often, was Keleesa Shronsdottor, Captain of the Dedasian Queen’s Guard. From what Sascha could tell, Keleesa was a space vixen of the first order, always trying to put down plots against her beloved queen, while ending up having sex with an improbable string of enemies and allies. She also happened to be of a size and shape close to Sascha’s, which helped explain why Foster was so entranced by the sylph. It was a perfect costume, but still he had never worn it.

His problem was that Keleesa’s hair was dark blue, something that Sascha could easily accomplish as a result of Dr. Werner Eveline’s modifications, but he had been unwilling. Once aboard The Lady Tramp, Sascha had used the comb to change his hair back to its natural black, then had set it aside as an evil reminder of his slavery. Not even being prepared to use it while assuming one of the roles he play acted to fulfill Foster’s numerous fantasies. However, he had now backed himself into a corner. In order to get out, he felt he needed to thrill Foster like never before. He could not afford the luxury of pride.

Crouching down, he dug out the small bag that had been pushed to the back of the closet. From the bag he hesitantly pulled out the metal comb, once such a constant companion, but now a reminder of a cruel past. Sighing he carried it with him as he moved to sit cross-legged on the bed, before setting the controls, and beginning to stroke it through his hair. At first nothing happened, causing him to worry that the micro-organisms had died away from disuse; however, soon he began to feel the creepy feeling on his scalp as they vibrated in response to the comb. Watching in the mirror, on the wall at the head of the bed, he saw his hair slowly change from black to a glossy blue and found it did not bring painful memories. Instead he was enchanted by the feeling that he was changing into another person, not because someone else told him to do so, instead it was what he wanted.

And why would he not want to be someone else, someone braver than frightened, little Sascha? So unlike Keleesa who oozed confidence and had a devil-may-care attitude about how anybody perceived her. True she was over-sexed, but that did not bother Sascha. Many would judge him the same way, not understanding that it was one area of his life when he felt in control. He had even that way when he was Prince Fallan’s property.

So by the time he finished colouring his hair, he had decided that he was quite looking forward to the masquerade. He searched and found a picture of Keleesa on his personal console. Studying the image on the screen, Sascha planned the best way to bring the captain to life. Seeing that his hair was not quite right, he used his hair wand, from drawer beside his bed, to put a wave in his hair, before tying it into a perky, pony-tail high upon the back of his head. Next, were the eyes. His huge green eyes just would not do, fortunately Foster did not share Prince Fallan’s prejudices and had bought him a set of MultiCol Lenses to help his impersonations. So common were there use, the information included with the picture provided the proper settings that Signie Fesen, who played Keleesa Shronsdottor in the vids, used to create the captains’s greyish-blue eyes.

Making up his face was just as easy, Sascha’s skill allowed him to come to replicating the face on the screen. As a final step, he used the special lip balm, advertised by Signie Fesen, he had purchased with the costume. Made from an extract of the Harnovian Blueberry, it resulted in tasty blue lips, though a mild toxin in the berry caused a reaction that turned the wearer’s lips into the juicy plump pillows that Keleesa put to such good use. The advertisement proved correct and soon his lips were as kissable as could be. Liking the result and mischievously deciding to provide Foster with an extra surprise, Sascha used the balm to cover his nipples, causing him to gasp in pleasure as they turned into the proverbial glass cutters.

Checking his face against the one on the console Sascha decided to change his earrings. Rummaging through the bedside drawer, he found some large hoops and quickly switched to them. Another check and Sascha decided while not perfect, he was close as he was going to get and definitely good enough for fantasy.

Returning to the closet he removed the bag, laid it upon his bed and opened it. First from the bag was a replica of the silver (actually made of stainless steel) torque Keleesa wore as a rank designation. Fortunately the company from which he had ordered the costume demanded exact measurements and equipped the torque with a sweat absorbing cloth liner, which meant that it was not nearly as uncomfortable as it appeared, though it forced him into the head held high posture with which faced the world.

Next he removed and pulled on a pair of silver, synth-leather, knee height boots that laced up the front. Platformed and stilettoed, they were nearly as high as the tallest he had ever worn for the prince. Remembering Lieutenant Bandle’s disbelief at the boots that had been part of the suit in Sascha had worn during their escape, he wondered what that man would think of these. Most likely he would be amazed at the ease that Sascha, like Signie as Keleesa, handled them.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he posed, naked except for the boots and the torque. Exciting his seldom apparent male libido, he wondered if he should even continue with the rest of the costume. He knew Foster would love how he looked, but realized that he would appreciate the full affect even more.

Noticing the countdown timer, until Transition, he realized he better hurry if he was to have enough time to perform the entire scene, he had rehearsed in his mind, for Foster. Opening a side pouch on the bag he took out two small pieces of white cloth and straps. Throwing one of these on the bed, Sascha threaded the other between his legs before tying bows, at his hips, to hold the tiny, thong panties, barely large enough to hold the emblem of the Dedasian Queen’s Guard, in place. He then fastened the matching bra, one that seemed just as small yet did an impressive job of presenting his breasts, which he always felt were just a wee too big.

Removing the skirt, made from the same material as his boots, from the bag, it would have been easy to mistakenly think it was longer than cheek showing number Keleesa wore. However, when Sascha gingerly stepped into it to pull it up, all the while cursing the fetish like zeal that had him put on the boots so early, the result was the expected micro skirt. Most of its length had been pulled up over his hips to just under his breasts. In the vids, this was poorly explained away as body armour, but as Sascha reached behind to trigger the switch, hidden as rivet, that made his small waist became tinier, its real purpose as a corset became apparent. As much as Sascha admired the affect, he was more impressed with the structural integrity and comfort of his tiny bra as the waist cinching made its job even more difficult.

Around his shrunken waist he fastened a blue, synth-leather utility belt. If held all the necessary items a Captain of the Queen’s Guard would need, things like wipes, make-up and spare panties. Plus it held wrist straps, from what Sascha tell after watching the vids, somebody was always ending up in the straps. More often than not, Keleesa herself.

The final part of the costume was a dark blue, bolero jacket. Again it was only just large enough and Sascha found it a tough pull to buckle together the two bottom parts, leaving the entire valley between his breasts exposed.

So he was dressed. Well kind of dressed, he amended as he checked his final appearance in the mirror. Still he suspected that Foster would love how he looked, heck he himself rather liked it. Sometimes Sascha could not deny that it was fun to be a sylph.

Recognizing the outfit needed one more thing, he put on a show while kneeling down to pull out a case from under and lift it onto his bed. Unlocking the metal case he removed his needle pistols, ensured they were in lock down mode and strapped them on. Giggling at how much longer the barrels were than his skirt he started to leave the room, before realizing he had no ammunition. Knowing he did not need any, he continued on his way, trying to ignore the feeling of having his guns strapped on, but not having any ammo. It left him feeling naked.

Laughing once more, he told himself that was likely due to what he was wearing.

* * *

Having completed all the necessary checklists before making the jump to Transition, Foster wondered if Sascha would be leaving her quarters. He wondered if he had guessed wrong, for he thought she should already have had enough time to change and make it to the nav/com centre. Maybe she was still mad at him and it would end up being him who had to bridge the gap between the two of them. He hoped not, knowing that he would be awkward and likely end up making it worse. It would be better if she made the first move; therefore, he would wait awhile longer

Besides he knew it was a bad time to leave the centre, this close to the Transition point. You never knew when another ship would pop out. True the ship’s computer should be able to stop any potential collision, but he liked to be there just in case. Providing himself an excuse for his cowardice, he forced his mind onto thinking about something else.

It took a number of fits and starts, but finally he settled on the vagaries of Transition, a topic complicated enough to fill books and endless afternoons of conversation. Transition, the name coined the dimension through which a ship could jump from one point of space to the next. It had been Jennifer Flamon who had discovered the parallel universe, over three thousand year ago, and then it took another millennia for it to be understood enough to use. For within it, a ship could move from one location to another, within the real universe, within minutes. This had provided a boon to human society and had led to the colonization of galaxies. However, there was an ugly underside, occurring when a ship spent too long in Transition. As the first scientists tried to travel further and further, things began to go wrong. Many never returned, while others returned insane or even worse, horribly mutated.

Those who could speak told fearfully of the Others who found them in that dimension, but what these Others were, they could never explain. For a period of time, the use of Transition was banned; however, its benefit was such that the ban did not last long. Instead, short jumps were deemed safe, allowing ships to make short hops, traveling at most fifty light years a jump. It seemed safe and only the desperate tested this safety net. People knew that if they stayed in Transition, then the Transition you experienced may not be the one that you wanted.

Fear of what could go wrong kept many planet-bound. Even amongst frequent Transitioners, like Foster, it was not unusual to have pre-jump jitters. Maybe because of his worry for Sascha and his thoughts Transition, this was one of those time. To ease those fears, he focussed upon plotted the twenty eight jumps they would take between Darson and their destination, at Telermor. Engrossed in this, he jumped in startlement when the intercom chimed and a high-pitched voice, failing at being officious, said, “Open this hatch now!”

Thrilled that Sascha had taken that first step in their reconciliation, Foster was even more excited that it sounded like it involved some play. And could it be? Well he would just have to play along to find out.

“Who is it?”

“It is Captain Keleesa Shronsdottor of the Queen’s Guard. Open up, I have received information that you are smuggling Dedasian diamonds.”

Showing a good amount of decorum, Foster did not leap up from his seat to do a happy jig at hearing this, instead he played along, “Honest Captain, I’m just a ore carrier. I would never smuggle, it’s against the law.”

“Then you should have no problem opening this hatch and letting me come in to see for myself, would you Mr. Lansdowne?”

“Well Captain...”

“I have explosives Mr. Lansdowne, either you open this hatch or I open it for you.”

“Hold on, hold on, I’m opening it now.” Then putting action to his words, activated switch to open the hatch. Not seeing his Chacha on the other side of the door, he waited for the next part of the scene.

“Put up your hands up where I can see them when I enter Mr. Lansdowne.”

“Their up Captain.”

And then with a cat’s grace, despite her impossible boots, Sascha glided into the centre behind her outstretched needle guns. Foster was struck by how friggen adorable she was, perfect for the role of Keleesa, better even than Signie Fesen.

“What are you smiling about Mr. Lansdowne?”

“Oh nothing Captain.”

“Then you would not mind me searching your ship?”

“Not at all Captain, though you’ll find nothing.”

“I am almost ready to believe you Mr. Lansdowne, but my duty requires that I be thorough.”

“I understand.”

“Then you don’t mind if I use these?” Holstering one of her pistols, Sascha removed the arm straps from her utility belt and held them up dangling from a finger.

“If that is the only way...”

With this tacit approval, Sascha strutted her way over to him. Then leaning down she loosely strapped his wrists to the arms of his flight chair, while ensuring that he was able to reach all the controls on each chair arm. Foster would have appreciated this, except he was much too distracted by the magnificent cleavage staring him in the face as she strapped him down. That complete she grinned, patted him on the cheek and said, “You stay here now, I’m going to look around.”

Sascha proceeded to do just that, putting on quite the show for the watching Foster. She used a technique of search unlikely to be copied by any police organization, seeing as how she only looked in those places where her posture would give him an excellent view up her skirt. This went on for a few moments and the results were as expected, Sascha found nothing and Foster became as horny as a Rodiniun rabbit. Finally, her search complete, Sascha strolled back to stand before him, unashamedly tugging her skirt back into place as she came. Standing there, with a finger tapping her oh so kissable lips, she looked searchingly around the room and then at Foster.

“I am beginning to thing that you are innocent Mr. Lansdowne.”

“I told you that Captain.”

And then like a scene straight out of a bad movie, that bad movie being Keleesa and the Diamond Smugglers, Sascha’s eyes lit up and she pronounced, “Ahah!”

With that she wiggled forward and placing her hand between his legs, grasped his hardness and told him, “It looks like I have found something after all Mr. Lansdowne, I am going to have to check it out.”

Without removing her hand, Sascha sunk to her knees between his legs. Bringing her other hand into the action she unfastened his flight suit, then reaching in she pulled him out, while leaning forward as if to looking for contraband. This act brought a moan to Foster’s lips as the close quarters of the search had her smooth cheek rubbing against his happy man, the moan turned to one of frustration when she sat back once more on her haunches and pronounced, “Well it seems there is nothing to see. Oops, let me put that back where it belongs. Why it does not seem to want to go, what shall I do?”

Looking up with innocent eyes, she told him, “I’m sorry Mr. Lansdowne, rules state that I am supposed to clean up after I perform a search. That means I am going to have to take drastic measures, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Foster only had time to squeak “Okay”, before she once more leaned to grasp him by the base of his rod and licked its entire length. Then taking him in her mouth she looked up at him with smiling eyes. With the gap since they had last sex and with the prepping done by her Keleesa impersonation, he was ready to immediately explode; however, the mild toxin in her lip balm delayed it from happening, while making him even harder. Still it was uneven battle for only a mild toxin, when it came head to head against Sascha’s skill and implicit knowledge of what Foster liked, and soon the build up returned. This time nothing could stop him.

Licking him clean, Sascha continued to look up at him, as if trying to read his face. Seeing only blissful aftershocks, she mumbled, “I’m sorry Foster.”

“What for Chacha?”

“For doubting you. For getting mad at you, not believing you when you said everything was going to be all right.”

“I know you were scared, coming back to Darson.”

“I was, but that didn’t mean that I should take it out on you. After all, nobody has ever been nicer to me, than you have been. And I knew you weren’t doing it to be mean.”

“No I wasn’t, I have to go where the company tells me. If not I would be out of a job and we would both be out of a home.”

“I know, it was silly of me. Plus I was miserable and missed you.”

“I missed you to Chacha. But you sure made the reunion good.”

With a twinkle in her eye, she asked, “Did you like it?”

“More than you could believe.”

“Well being on the end of it, I likely have a good idea. It was so silly, but I knew you would like it.”

At that moment the five minute to Transition alarm went off, a surprise since both of them had missed the ten minute alarm. Reaching up, she undid the arm straps, then said, “You know it doesn’t have to end.”

He knew what she wanted. He wanted it too, but always worried about it during Transition. Still when she looked up at him with those pleading eyes, combined with what she had just done for him, he could not refuse. Nodding his head, he told her, “Okay Chacha.”

* * *

Looking up at the smile on Foster’s face, Sascha was fairly sure that his performance had been enough to remind the pilot why it was a good idea to keep him around. Still he felt that it would not do any harm to apologize and so he did. Then when Foster admitted how much he had missed him, it made Sascha feel really good. And how Foster looked at him, it was not just with lust.

Through sculpting and training, the prince had ensured that Sascha would be desired by men. Even before he had left the estate on which he had been raised, Sascha had grown used to that look. But not until Prince Fallan had come to take him to the palace, had Sascha begun to recognize it offered the only power he was allowed over men, whose other emotion when looking at the sylph was disdain. Though not against the prince, over him Sascha had held no power, but the guards, the prince’s allies and family member had all wanted him, despite themselves. Yet Sascha had realized that in his selfishness, the prince shared nothing, specially not his masterpiece. At least he would not share, until he tired of a possession.

Understanding this protection had tempted Sascha into becoming somewhat of a tease. It was a dangerous hobby, as he had been told by Baselle, the prince’s body servant and the only person on Darson who may have seen Sascha as something other than a body. Baselle had warned of the long memory of those he teased and reminded what would happen if one day Prince Fallan tired of him. For a time he had stopped, but found himself lured back to the rather thrilling, though dangerous, pastime. Then he caught by the prince.

Sascha could remember his fear when the prince ordered to follow him after watching his sylph’s wiggling performance for some guards. However, rather than angry, the prince found it terribly amusing. Instead of stopping Sascha’s fun, he had greedily co-opted it, taken it away for his own use. No longer did Sascha perform for his own amusement, instead it was for the prince’s benefit. The interview on the launch, with Lieutenant Bandle, being the final such act.

So Sascha was used to being looked at by men. But none of their eyes held the tenderness he was seeing from Foster. It made him think that he was more than forgiven, he wondered if he had found a place to call his own.

Such passed through Sascha’s mind as he teased Foster about his reaction to the costume, until he was interrupted by the Transition prep alarm. Surprised by the passage of time, Sascha reached up to undo Foster’s arms. While doing that, another thought crept into his mind, one that may help prove whether his thoughts of acceptance were true. What he wanted to do was something that he liked more than did Foster. He wondered if it would be dangerous to ask, but decided that the response would tell him much; therefore, he said, “You know it doesn’t have to end yet.”

Watching the man think, Sascha felt he could guess Foster’s thoughts. The pilot had been taught, if not to fear Transition, to have a healthy degree of respect for it. He was leery of doing anything unusual, nervous that the difference could prove disastrous. He would not understand Sascha’s interest in sex during a jump and likely felt nothing but relief that the one, drunken time where the two had made a jump, while joined, had not proven disastrous. Yet he would still be in a sexual haze, as proven by the hard member that Sascha’s hand once more stroked; therefore, when he agreed, Sascha was not surprised.

Not surprised, but definitely pleased. For Sascha had not told Foster that the only one time in his life he had ever reached orgasm was the time they had sex while Transitioning. Foster did not realize that the prince, selfish in all things, had been more interested in his own pleasure when he had chosen Sascha’s vaginal implant. Wonderfully tight though it may be to any man, it provided little pleasure for Sascha, hinting at ecstasy, but never reaching it. At least not until that time with Foster in Transition. Since then, Sascha had wanted to experience it again. But remembering Foster’s relief when he had sobered up, the sylph had never asked to do it, unwilling to force the pilot into doing something that frightened him. On this day, Sascha wanted that pleasure, despite Foster’s fears. Possibly he still channeled the spirit of Captain Keleesa Shronsdottor, who was used to getting what she wanted.

Acting before Foster changed his mind, Sascha leaned forward once more to lick and prepare the member he had continued to stroke. Satisfied, Sascha rose to his feet from his knees, then daintily pulling his skirt the rest of the way over his hips, he climbed onto the flight chair to straddle Foster. Reaching between his legs to once more grasp Foster’s tool, he guided it past the minimal protection of his panties as he slowly lowered himself, until they were one.

As often as he had been in this position, Sascha found the anticipation, at that moment, delicious. Wrapping his arms around Foster’s neck, he raised himself just enough to nibble upon and whisper in an ear, “Thank you Foster,”

Foster’s answer was a contented sigh, before saying, “Just sit still for a moment Chacha, I need to prepare for the jump.”

Taking the murmured words as an order, Sascha settled down for the moment, though he used his skills to ensure that Foster stayed ready. His own readiness was apparent whenever one of Foster’s hands, as they danced across the controls on the chair’s arms, glanced against his bare flanks and sent shivers of pleasure throughout his body. Then the hands did more than glance against his thighs, they stroked, caressed, and led Sascha to breathlessly ask, “Is it time?”

Nodding his head, Foster said, “Everything is ready, we will be jumping in about a minute.”

“How long will we be in Transition?”

Foster’s groaned, as Sascha begun to slowly bob up and down on his lap, before saying, “We should be in for just under six minutes.”

“Mmmm, ok.”

Neither of them payed any attention to the rest of the count down, as the ship prepared to jump into Transition. Foster enthralled by what was happening to him and Sascha was controlling the pace so that Foster’s excitement did not rob him of what he wanted.

Then from one moment to the next, Sascha knew that he would not be robbed. They had passed into the unreality of Transition and suddenly he was afire with pleasure. It was as if its unreality canceled out his own, making everything about his body real. It felt so very good, and he could not help to feel saddened that he was normally denied this pleasure. However, this negative thought was soon chased away as he focussed upon the urgency of the moment. Instinctively he knew what brought him the most pleasure. So apparently did Foster, for not long after entry Sascha experienced his first orgasm, followed by more as the pilot maintained his stamina until just before they popped back into real space.

There, Sascha slumped against Foster’s chest, panting heavily as he tried to regain his breath. Only then did he notice the cramping in his legs, kneeling as he was astride the pilot. So he slithered free from the man until he was on his own feet, where he took some wipes from his utility belt to clean both himself and Foster, before tucking him away with a still happy smile.

“I really enjoyed that Foster.”

“Being on the end of it, I think I guessed,” Foster replied, with a grin.

“Are we all better, for real?”

“Yes we are all better, for real, Chacha.”

“Good. Do we have time for a bite to eat before our next Transition?”

“Actually I could definitely use something to eat, so yes.”

“Ok, I’ll run to the galley to get something for us. You wait here.”

Just as he was exiting the hatch, he was stopped by the sound of his nick-name. Turning back to Foster, he saw a leering grin and heard him say, “And keep on the get-up, you may still need to look for smuggled diamonds.”

Thinking of undiscovered surprise under his still fastened jacket, Sascha smiled back and said, “I think there may be some jewels for you to find as well.”

It was a much happier Sascha who walked through the halls, in comparison to the one who had ambled from the cargo hold earlier. He even found himself humming a tune as he made a quick stop at his quarters, in order to better clean up and check his makeup. While fixing his hair he suddenly heard Foster’s voice over the intercom. “Forget food for now Chacha, we have to get back ready for another jump.”

Hearing the concern in the pilot’s voice, Sascha triggered the intercom in his room, to ask, “What’s wrong Foster?”

“A ship just popped into real space, not too far away from us. And it does not seem to be showing a signature beacon.”

It was rare for another ship to appear in the same pocket of real space, when there was no planet fall or station. Never had it happened while Sascha had been on The Lady Tramp and his impression was that Foster had only seen it a few times. Unusual as it was, most times it was just a matter of coincidence, two ships on their journeys, criss-crossing paths. However, most planets mandated that all ships show a signature beacon, thus when a ship that did not show theirs and that had just popped into the Tramp’s pocket of space, it was rather ominous. The immediate worry that popped into his mind was that the ship was a pirate, something more common than most navies cared to admit. Based on Foster’s rush to jump to Transition, the pilot must have had the same thought.

“Will we have enough time to make the jump Foster?”

“Yes, it should only take fifteen minutes to regain jump momentum and they are too far away to close on us in that amount of time.”

“Okay, let me know if there is anything I can do to help?”

“Sorry Chacha, I can’t think of anything right now.”

After spending the first five of the fifteen minutes fretting, Sascha decided to feed his curiosity, so stopping his pacing, he sat in front of his console. After finding the right menu commands, he pulled up an image of the other ship and initiated a cross-match to search for any helpful information. The results were far from positive, showing that the ship was an Osprey 203. Osprey 203s were classified as a armed cutters, which had initially been used as planetary custom vessels. Normally crewed by twelve men, they mounted two plasma cannons, though did not have any torpedo launchers. The Osprey was no danger to even the smallest naval vessel, but could stop an unarmed ship, even one the size of The Lady Tramp. But the worst news, was that the Ospreys had mostly been decommissioned nearly twenty years earlier, though some of those doing the decommissioning had not been overly choosy about what happened to them. Quite a few ended up in the hands of non-desirables and it had become known as the ship of choice for pirates.

It was a completely different anticipation that Sascha felt this time during the lead up to the Transition jump. Though his nervous energy made him feel just as alive as had his earlier lust.

However, the jump, when it came, had no impact upon his body. After all, an escape from reality is significantly different from a real escape. At least Sascha hoped it would be a real escape, but he knew there were rumours that pirates were able to track a ship through Transition. Speculation was, that the amount of time they spent hiding within the otherverse, gave them a better understanding of it.

Anxiously Sascha waited for the end of Transition, hoping to put a lie to those rumours. So when The Lady Tramp popped back into reality his eyes stayed pinned to his console, while it was tuned to the ships external sensors. Sensors that soon pinged another ship joining them in their bubble, a ship recognizable as an Osprey 203.

There was only one thing to do, try another jump and another after that if needed, all the while hoping that Foster could lose the other ship. Or that the other ship would miscalculate a jump in comparison to the freighter.

So too did these hopes begin to dim, after the next two jumps. Each time the other ship appeared soon after they popped into space, yet each time it was closer, approaching the range of its plasma cannons. And even with Foster trying to convince both himself and Sascha that the next jump would do the trick, neither of them believed it. Too methodical and practiced was the other ship’s encroachment, obviously they had done this before. Sascha knew, though he was unwilling to admit it aloud to Foster, that they were not going to escape, that they would be caught.

Once more Sascha approached his closet, removing another costume that he had planned never to wear again. But plans must always be tempered by reality, so just as he had recognized the need for Keleesa’s earlier appearance, he knew that she was not the right person for the next job. True she always solved the mystery or caught the bad guys, which she would then celebrate with a final romp between the sheets, yet that was not real life.

No, it was time for someone more dangerous to show. Time for Sascha to be himself, the Shootist who had made the march with Dawson’s Bunch. Thus he needed the costume, no the outfit, he had worn on that march.

His nose wrinkled as he carried the body suit to his bed. Not in disgust at the smell, the suit had been thoroughly cleaned before he had put it away, but at the remembered hardships and the knowledge of what he had become while wearing it. The suit turned him into a killer and to be a killer is a horrible thing. Much better was it to give pleasure, not to take it away for all time. Still he doubted the pirates would give him a choice. They would see him as a toy, taking him like Prince Fallan had taken him, which Sascha had promised himself to never let happen again. He would offer it to those he chose, but he would rather fight to the death than allow someone to take it. Thus it was time to become the killer.

Shedding Keleesa, he first removed the holsters with his pistols from around his hips, which caused him to question why it was the suit and not the guns that reminded him of what he had done during those last days on Darson. They were the true instruments of death, yet they did not bother him. Too long had they been his, too often had he spent his days with them as his only companions, playing games on a simulator. Linked as they were to him, he could not blame them without blaming himself. No it was better to blame the suit, as with his other costumes, it was easier to attach a persona to clothes. Even if that persona was his own.

With the holsters carefully sat aside, it did not take long to shed the rest of the tiny garments that had made him Keleesa, leaving only his hair and nails as reminders of the role. The colour, which had seemed such a major step earlier, now was no more than a good match for the grayish, blue body suit. Braiding his hair, he fondly recalled the styling machine left behind in Denj, still he was quite accomplished with his hair and soon two long braids were formed. Braids he perversely tied off with white ribbons, fashioned into pretty bows.

Once more coating his body in the powder from Pylong 5, Sascha sat on his bed and slid each foot into a leg, of the suit, until they thunked home into the attached, high-heeled boot. Pulling it up to his thighs, he stood to wiggle the tight suit over his hips before threading his arms and hands into sleeves, which pulled the suit up over his torso. Reaching behind himself, he triggered the fastener that caused the suit to hug his body from toe to chin.

Attaching the holsters to his thighs Sascha returned to get a final item from the closet, a black helmet on which had been stenciled the name G.Rossi. The name of the Bunch member whose death, in Denj, had ended with Sascha being given the helmet that connected him to Ivar’s entire platoon during their escape. It’s weight was a solid presence in his hands and he spared a moment to wonder what “poor ole Guiarmo” had been like. Probably, like the helmet, the man would not have been flashy, but that he had been very good at his job, though unlucky in the end. As Sascha integrated the helmet to the ship’s information grid, something he would not have been able to do when he had first arrived on the Tramp, he spared a final question for the long dead man, ‘Had Guiarmo found the helmet as claustrophobic as he did?’

Deciding to not yet put on the helmet, he opened up the channel to Foster and asked, “How is it going Foster?”

He heard a tired sigh, before the pilot answered, “Not so good Chacha. The other ship is gaining on us each Transition, I don’t think it will be long before we are within range of its cannon.”

“Will they fire on us?”

“That is my guess, they will need to stop The Lady Tramp before they can board her.”

“Okay, I will get ready to meet them.”

“I guess that is better than nothing.”

The two of them had discussed what to do if they were boarded by pirates after Sascha had read a set of guidelines published United Mining and found that the section on pirates, which could be paraphrased as, ‘You likely won’t run into pirates, but if you do kiss your ass goodbye.’ This synched with Foster’s viewpoint, he had never experience anything like the escape from Denj with a group of professional, mayhem creators. Sascha could not convince him otherwise, the pilot being unwilling to accept the sylph’s experience from that apprenticeship. He did not understand, like Sascha understood, that sometimes you had to stand and fight.

“Okay Foster, keep me informed of anything that happens.”

“Will do. And Chacha...”

“Yes?”

“It’s been good.”

A Shootist Avenged

It would be wrong to say that Sascha was chameleon-like, that lizard changed its colours to match its surroundings, but stayed a chameleon. Meanwhile, Sascha changed on the inside to match the clothing he wore, with the helmet in place, the sylph was gone.

Walking through familiar corridors he saw them with different eyes. That closet a place to spring an ambush, the crossway between sections K and L an escape path. Terrain he intimately knew, could provide him an advantage, possibly enough to compensate for being outnumbered. He considered setting up a fortified position, but reasoned he was better on the move, able to encounter boarders in smaller numbers. Nor would he attack at the main hatch, he needed to determine their numbers before making his move.

Coming to the conclusion that his pacing burned energy he would need later, Sascha stopped at the galley. Though Foster said he was not hungry, Sascha took advantage of the time to fill his stomach, following the advice of the Bunch members, who had made him eat when they had a chance. Finishing a prepared package of rations, he filled up the canteen attached to his belt. Then he waited, guessing that it would not be long, for the pirate was almost in range. So when next they entered Transition, Sascha felt it would be the last time.

Immediately, on return, things went to hell, leaving Foster only enough time to shout, “Shit, they’re here.”

Then the large freighter was under attack. Such was the pirate’s skill and confidence in extrapolating their jumps, it had not even waited until the freighters return to reality before firing numerous salvos from its cannons. To The Lady Tramp, it was as if she had entered a meteor shower, though instead of rocks, it consisted of exploding slugs of uranium. And while many of the slugs missed, the ship hit enough to do their job.

As massive as a freighter needed to be, in order to hold its load, the impacts of those slugs was hardly noticeable to Sascha. He was not thrown from his seat, his removed helmet did not go flying from its seat on the table and he barely heard the explosions. Yet almost immediately he knew something bad had happened, the powerful engines now seemed to labour as opposed to their normal roar. Then a second salvo hit and even more damage was done. And then a third, and a fourth.

When he heard nothing more, no explosions nor the sounds of the engines, he used the intercom to asked, “Foster what’s the situation?”

“Foster?”

“Foster!”

There was no reply. Nervously, fearing the worse, he pulled up a status display on a console. The ship was not dead, but she had been crippled. Her engines were down and numerous breeches had been made in the hull. Most of these were not a problem, piercing the hold or a non-livable part of the ship. But at least two breeches, nearly on top of one another, were what Sascha guessed caused the silence from Foster. For there was little chance that the pilot would have survived the sudden loss of atmosphere within the nav/con centre.

Sascha realized he was alone.

A selfish first thought, when his best friend and only companion had just been killed. Yet some cold part within him, would not allow him to think about Foster. It was easier to feel sorry for himself or better yet, to hate the pirates who had caused the pain.

Hate, it was a curious feeling, one that Sascha had never felt. Though many on Darson, particularly Prince Fallan, had been deserving of it, he had always been too dependent upon them to allow it to blossom. Only with freedom was Sascha given the luxury to afford an emotion like hate. No longer a slave, he could finally have something to cherish, something that when taken away could serve as a catalyst to make his despair burn hot enough to become something harder. So new a feeling, yet it felt so very right. It was perfect fuel for what he needed to do.

Switching the console view to the image of the smaller, deadlier ship as it approached, Sascha realized that all that was left for him was to seek vengeance against those who it held. Either they or he needed to die.

Taking time for another drink and to use the head, Sascha then performed final checks upon his guns, ensuring they did not bind in their holsters and that they were loaded. He then pulled on the helmet, making the final transformation into the Shootist. With the helmet seated properly, he spoke the command that showed the view of the main hatch’s camera, in the top half of his visor. Taking a moment to get used to this split vision, Sascha then left the galley, moving to the location from which he planned to strike.

Like every utility closet on The Lady Tramp, Utility Closet FG44 provided access to wiring, tubing, equipment, or any number of things needed to allow make ship work. Yet a number of factors about this closet made it Sascha’s choice as his starting point. Most importantly, it had two entrances, one into corridor G and one into corridor F, two of the almost two kilometers of corridors on the large ship, corridors rarely used except for maintenance and soon, for ambush. However, just as important, while neither corridor led anywhere important, both corridors were criss-crossed by a number crossways. From this closet, Sascha knew he could move to strike in multiple directions, at whatever target seemed best.

Sitting on the floor of the closet, waiting for the Osprey 203 to make a linkage with the freighter, Sascha played with the displays available to him with the helmet. Checking that he could switch between the many cameras that surveyed most of the ship’s corridors. Deciding to keep the split view, Sascha hoped it did not hurt his marksmanship and wished he had spent more time practicing with the helmet, even if that practice was with the all-purpose simulator available on the Tramp, instead of a Havoc Simulator. If it did prove a distraction, then he would have to switch back to a single view.

Though the pirate’s ship had less mass than a full ore shuttle it weighed enough that Sascha felt it latch onto The Lady Tramp. Focussed upon the main hatch, in the top half of his visor, he waited. Something that, despite his age, he was quite good at. It had been learned while waiting upon Prince Fallan’s whim.

When something happened, it almost came as a surprise. Blinking, he missed the hatch slide open, only the gap where it allowed him to realize what had happened and forced him to intently watch for entry. Yet moments passed and none came, then a square box rolled into the room, one Sascha guessed held a camera. For nearly ten minutes the camera either sat spinning in place or dashing back and forth down near-by corridors.

Whoever was in charge, on the other side, finally decided that nobody waited for their incursion. A furtive movement at the door showed someone preparing to enter. The movement resolved into a man, who carefully stepped through the hatch, trailing behind the energy pistol he held in front of himself. Looking around the entrance, a look of disgust appeared on his face. He turned back to the hatch, and through the audio pick-up, Sascha heard him say, “So what the fuck you all waiting for, its not like ya bunch shitheads are going to get a written invitation.”

“Shut your cock-holster Booser, were coming,” growled a strange voice. “We was all hoping you would spring a trap, which would shut yours forever.”

“Fuck Dornor, I been saying that there was no fucking way that the pilot of this here shit can, could have survived being bent over by those slugs that fucked up the nav centre.”

“Still the Captain wants us to be smart, you second guessing him Booser?”

At these words, the other speaker lumbered through the hatchway and into Sascha’s nightmares. Huge, having to bend over to step through the hatch, his skin a dull grey making him appear more statue than man. Yet the sculptor apparently had lacked skill, for the result was blocky and poorly formed, making the figure man-shaped, though not a man. His appearance fully made Sascha understand what Foster had feared about Transition, for he doubted not that this Dornor was a victim of Transition gone wrong.

“Fuck no Dornor. You know I’m not a big enough fucktard to second guess the Captain. Fuck if he thought I was, he would rip off my head and take a shit down my neck.”

“So you’re second guessing me? You know, I am feeling the need to take a dump.”

“I’m just saying, you know?”

“I know, but you need to watch your trap Booser, otherwise someone will shut it for you.” Then turning away from the man, said, “Come on through you lot, we have work to do if we are to get this hulk moving again.”

What followed him through the hatch was a motley group if there ever was one. Fourteen of them, some normal looking like Booser, while four others challenged Dornor for the ugly prize. The normal ones were of each gender and ranged from the weasely first fellow to a blonde haired angel, yet it the others who drew Sascha’s attention. Having already seen Dornor, they lost some of their visual impact, yet he knew if any had been the first through the door, instead of the Man-Statue, they would have affected him just the same. Each appeared a perfect villain for a vid of even lesser quality than the Captain Keleesa stories, so he assigned them names right from such a tale of horror, there was; the Wolfman, the Red Demon, Headless Woman, Skeleton-Woman and the Ghoul.

Dornor formed his gang into groups, some to scavenge and others to begin repairs. Then they headed out, in multiple directions, as groups of two or three. The last group included Dornor and two normals; however, before he left, he yelled back into the ship with some orders. From this, Sascha guessed that the ship held more crew members than the fourteen boarders and the captain whom Dornor had spoke.

Sascha wondered if he should hold off attacking, until he had better information about their hidden numbers. But decided that the only way to gain that knowledge was to flush them out.

With the decision made, he began to flick through camera views, finding each grouping. Focusing on the scavenging teams, who appeared to be spreading the furthest from the others, Sascha determined his first target would be two of the normals, including the blonde haired woman. From what he could tell, they were headed in his general direction. They were traveling corridor I, popping into rooms they passed, which gave him a number of crossways from which to set an ambush. So quietly leaving the closet he made his way to the junction of corridor H and crossway 63, before ducking into a nook.

Watching their progression with the help of the cameras, it was the sound of their voices that made him realize how close they were to his location. Listening to the man try to flirt with the woman, while her constantly told him to shut the fuck up, Sascha heard the two of them walk past the crossway.

Silently, moving away from his hiding place on his rubber-soled high heels, he moved to the corner of corridor H, then taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the hall with his guns in hand. The two pirates, wrapped up in their argument, heard nothing of their approaching death. Instead, after taking a second to target, Sascha fired two bursts, from each of his guns, at the figure on the right. As the needles burst into a slender back, turning a blonde braid red, he frowned. The dispersal of the tiny missile, some even hitting the corridor’s wall, was totally unacceptable. He could blame it on his visor’s display, but recognized it to mostly be sloppiness.

However, Sascha redeemed himself upon the second target. The man, who had begun to turn at the sound of the needle guns, found himself burdened by the slumping corpse of his companion as it fell against him and was helpless as Sascha switched targets and fired. This time his aim was excellent. Four bursts, one hundred and twenty needles, created an entry wound just above the man’s right ear that could be covered by a small chit.

Knowing how unnecessary it was to check the two, so obviously dead pirates, Sascha wheeled back into crossway 63 and hurriedly returned to the nook from which he had attacked. Despite the success of the attack, he still found it had made his adrenaline surge. Trying to bring it under control, he flipped from camera to camera to see if any of the other groups were aware of the attack.

In a few moments, his heart rate was under control and he was sure that the rest of the pirates were still unaware of his existence. Thus he began to look for his next target, specifically he looked for the closest group. They were five corridors past his first targets, it was a group of three, consisting of two normal men and the abnormal he had named the Ghoul.

Leaving the nook, he slowly moved in their direction. Passing through corridor H he spared a moment’s glance towards his first victims, their bodies slumped together in a fashion that would surely have displeased the woman. Passing on he was soon within striking range, though frustrated by their spacing. Unlike the first pair, these three moved with a separation that would have even pleased Ivar, there was no way that Sascha would be able to pull off the same trick. If he let them all pass, then the Ghoul, who led, would be far enough away to make him a difficult target. His best choice was to split the three, while hoping that surprise, combined with his speed, would prove good enough. It was an option that he did not like, his safety depended upon the pirates’ reaction times. Sascha had to hope the three would be no better than the Bogrons, the monsters making up level 12 of the Havoc Simulator, on whom he had practice this attack.

Choosing to attack the gap between the two normals, where only one would see his initial attack, he moved towards crossway 48 and waited, hearing first one set of feet, then a second pass by. Dashing in and through the crossway, he found his timing to be off, coming out almost on top of the third man. Due more to reaction then planning, Sascha squeezed the triggers of his guns without aiming. Not that aiming was needed at that distance, the needles sliced up the pirate’s torso into his neck. Reacting more than thinking, Sascha spun away from the man, while ignoring the spray of arterial blood that splashed across his side and back, and fired at the second man, who was turning with a shout.

Confident in the damage those bursts would cause, Sascha stepped out of his pirouette, moving a couple paces to the right, obtaining a clear line of sight on the Ghoul. However, the speed of that pirate belayed his zombie-like appearance, before Sascha could fire, the man had turned, and fired his energy gun. Yet speed alone was not enough, when it did not include the natural instincts shown by his tiny attacker. For where Sascha had the pirate targeted, the Ghoul had just fired, bouncing the bolts from his gun of the walls. Only minor reflections struck the shootist, minor enough that his suit and helmet easily absorbed the energy.

Meanwhile, ignoring the bolts, Sascha finished his second step and opened fire upon the shooter. No more was he affected by the split screen, every needle went where he wanted it to go. Sascha was in the same zone which had allowed him to reach one of the highest scores ever obtained on a Havoc Simulator.

Yet that training proved his undoing. Four bursts, enough to immediately kill all of his prior targets, was not enough to take down the Ghoul. Unable to raise his energy gun, instead the man reached for his communicator and though he may not have had time to speak, anybody listening would have heard the second set of four bursts that finished him off. Surprise was now gone.

Sascha ran down the corridor, in the direction the three pirates had been walking. Not panicked, yet recognizing that he needed to put distance between himself and any of the other pirates, he ran to where none of them could yet be. Not worrying about what the pirates were doing in response, he ran until he reached Utility Closet ST89, with multiple entries like FG44, and slipped inside. This time it took longer to slow his heart and to regain his breath, even lifting his visor to take a drink. Then he began trying to determine what the pirate’s were doing in response, while unconsciously reloading his guns that now held less then half their load.

The pirates were definitely aware that something was going on, but did not appear sure of what. Therefore, every one of them had stopped what they were doing and were chattering away on their communicators.

Finally he found the camera containing Dornor in its sights. Unlike all the others, Dornor moved as he talked into his communicator. Momentarily Sascha wished he had picked up one of the communicators off of one of the pirate’s bodies, before reminded himself with his next thought that it would only have given them the ability to track him down. Guessing the Man-Statue was on his way to the main hatch, Sascha checked to ensure the other pirates were staying put. Returning to Dornor he saw him reach the hatch and wait to be joined by two heavily muscled men. They almost looked normal, if one did not look closely enough to see that each only had a single eye. Without a word, the three of them began moving in the direction of Sascha’s attacks, stopping along the way to pick up Wolfman and the Red Demon.

Sascha knew he had a decision to make. Did he wait for the approaching band of uglies? Or should he attack them? Or was it best to ignore them completely and go after someone else?

Not liking the confident swagger of the five beast-men, Sascha chose the last option. Though first he needed to get away from the quadrant of the ship in which the attacks had occurred. Leaving the closet he hurried, towards the stern of the ship, where he knew the fewest pirates were to be found, just a single group had headed that way, the Headless Woman and a normal man. Neither of them had appeared particularly dangerous, but he had not been able to find them on his most recent scan and that made him nervous.

Therefore, after he had put a fair amount of distance between himself and Utility Closet ST89, Sascha slowed his pace. Switching his visor from the view of Dornor and his crew, he once more scanned the through the cameras in the stern, trying to find the two missing pirates. Again he had no luck, nothing stood out.

He still had not found him when the five found his first victims. Soon after, Sascha had another idea and ducked into sheltered corner, then turning up the audio feed he once again flip from feed to feed in the section of the ship. On his third rotation he thought he heard a feint noise, though it was quickly gone. When more scans found nothing else, he decided to move towards the one area he had heard something, a camera not too far from his current location. Proceeding slowly, he passed through crossways and down corridors until he was close to his destination and listened, trying to hear the sound once more. After a few seconds, he thought he heard something and hesitantly moved in the direction from which it came.

As he got closer he thought it sounded familiar. And then it struck him, what it heard was something he had often caused. Knowing how little threat was posed by someone making that noise, he quickly moved towards the chamber from which it came. Then with guns ready he tripped the hatch and leaped inside.

Entering he was not surprised by what he saw, though somewhat sickened. The woman’s body was a work of art; long legged and voluptuously curved, yet so very incomplete without a head. Therefore, Sascha was disturbed by the depravity of the act in which the two were engaged. For a moment Sascha felt sympathy for the woman, almost a kinship, but then he remembered Foster and his heart hardened, allowing the twosome an become an easy target. Seconds later he was out the door and on the move.

Ducking into another nook, Sascha evaluated the situation. Though he had now accounted for nearly half of the initial boarding party, the task ahead of him seemed to be getting more and more complicated. Besides the group of five who were now prowling the hallways, it appeared the rest of the pirates, Skeleton-Woman and the remaining four normals, were on the move to link up near the main hatch. Estimating distances to travel, Sascha realized that he would not be able reach any of these before they met, meaning he would soon be facing two groups of five. Neither of which would be distracted or ignorant like those upon whom he had already preyed. He would have to change his tactics.

He wished he had the back up of Ivar Bandle and his command, or Corporal Jenkins and 2nd gun, even a bag of grenades would make him feel a better. Instead all he had available was any wisdom he had gleaned from the lieutenant during their escape, on Darson. Sascha reminded himself that his mobility was the key, he needed to shoot and scoot. His next question was how best to utilize that mobility. It would be impossible to take out an group of five in one attack; therefore, he needed to be able to escape quickly after firing. Unfortunately, the corridors were long and straight, with crossways in increments of fifty feet. Anybody left alive, would find it easy to target him before he was out of eye-sight, even if he had longer legs or was fleeter of foot. He needed to attack from directions from which he could retreat, rather than those from which he ran. He decided it was time to take to the ducts.

The amount of ducting dwarfed the lengths of corridors on the ship. Kilometers existed above and below the main deck. Sascha hoped that from these he could strike and vanish.

Even though he felt the group of beast-men were deadlier, he decided to make them his next target. Sascha expected to begin losing his edge at some point, so it seemed smart to strike the more dangerous pack before it happened. He also felt it would be smart to spring his new attack upon them before they began watch for it. Lastly, they were closer, meaning he would have less time to think about the craziness of his plan before he acted. So plotting their path, he chose an entry point into the ducting, and moved in that location.

Climbing up into the dusty ducting, he worked upon convincing himself that the plan was not nearly as stupid as it appeared. He told himself, that due to his size, it would be easier for him to move in the ducts, then most of the pirates, specially the five he planned to attack. Although he recognized that this may be for naught if their weapons were able to penetrate the ceiling and the ducting to seek him out.

Understanding that there was only one way to find the answer to this question, Sascha began the long crawl towards a vent, three corridors away, he guessed that they would pass beneath. Arriving, he found that he did not have a good camera angle, allowing him to see the length of the corridor. However, before he could find another location to serve him better, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Worried that if he moved they would hear him, he cautiously waited for someone to pass within eye and gun sight.

Suddenly the steps came to a halt. Nervous with his inability to see anything, he held his breath and waited. Until a voice, he recognized as Dornor’s, whispered, “What’s up Traling?”

The voice that replied was as harsh as his, sounding more a beast’s growl, than a human’s voice. “I smell something.”

“What is it?”

“Well it reminds me of a whore I know on Cyplon 8, she likes it doggy style.”

“Fuck we don’t need to hear about your sex life Tra,” a third, deep pitched voice spoke up.

“At least some of us have one Eddie. But what is interesting about her, is that she has this powder that turns her into a tasty little morsel. Well I smell what she smells like after I am done with her, that powder and sex.”

Cursing the stupidity of not having showered, in fact having used more of his powder, before changing from the Keleesa costume into his suit, Sascha waited to see what would happen.

“Shit are you in heat Tra?”

“Shut the fuck up Eddie,” Dornor stated, cutting off a growl from Traling. “When has his nose ever been wrong. The attacker is likely near-bye, though I am surprised it’s a chick. Splatter boy in the nav centre must have kept himself a floozy. Can you find her Traling?”

There was no immediate answer. However, in a few moments Sascha began to hear a sound, he recognized as sniffing, approaching. Aiming both guns at the openings in the vent, he waited, for who he guessed to be the Wolfman, to approach.

Even prepared for it, Sascha was surprised when the fur-covered, bestial head suddenly appeared beneath him. Nor could he immediately respond when that head turned to glare up at the vent with bitter, yellow eyes. Yet neither was the Wolfman prepared, before he could move away or finish shouting, “I see her”, Sascha opened fire. The first burst demolished the metal vent covering, but the rest did all the damage needed. First defacing that sensitive snout, then destroying the rest of the furry face. And unlike his cousin of lore, no silver bullets were needed.

Not sticking around to wait for another target, Sascha immediately began crawling back the way he had come upon his hands and knees. Ignoring the bruising to his fingers, clenched around guns, as his weight crushed them against the ducting, he fearfully listened to the shouting below. Then the men opened up, with their weapons, at the ceiling above their heads. Most of their shots, including all of those from energy guns, were more dangerous to themselves, bouncing back instead of piercing the ceiling. But at least one of the pirates had an automatic slug-propeller, which blasted a row of five inch holes through the ceiling and the duct above. Luckily for Sascha, he had crawled in the opposite direction, though if not for his helmet’s dampers, he would have been deafened. Still it made him crawl even faster, turning around the first corner he reached.

Sascha did not quit crawling, until the sounds of pursuit died away. Only then did he try to determine where his mad scamper, including numerous random turns, had placed him in relation to the two groups of pirates. Even with the frantic pace at which he had traveled, he saw that he had not put as much distance between himself and those he had just attacked as he had thought. Instead his escape was due to the ducting running perpendicular to the corridors, forcing the pirates to travel a significantly greater distance for them to have maintained contact.

Not that the four had continued the chase. When he located them, on camera, they were in a corridor not too far away from his attack, nor his current location. However, they did not seem particularly interested in finding him, instead the two Cyclops and the Red Demon appeared to be arguing with Dornor, though they were not near enough to an audio pick-up to be heard.

After a few minutes, Dornor finally waved them to be quiet and started talking on his communicator. Sascha switched his view to the camera nearest where the other group had last been, and found the rest of the pirates gathered near the hatch. Seeing them, he wished that he was closer, for their casual indolence made them appear to be easy target; however, they were far enough way, to be temporarily safe. What he found most curious about this group, was that none of them seemed to talking, with each other or with Dornor. Recognizing that the Man-Statue must be talking to someone aboard the pirate ship, Sascha zoomed in on the main hatch.

Not long after doing this he saw three more figures appear at the hatch, each bearing a slug-propeller. Two of these, were women who seemed to subscribe to the Keleesa Shronsdottor school of fashion. Thought the confident manner in which they bore the propellers, dared you to underestimate them at your own peril.

The third figure would never be underestimated. Dwarfing the two women on both its side, it appeared to be a large walking lizard, complete with a thick tail dragging along the ground, providing extra stability. Earless and with a snout bearing viscous fangs, its orange reptile-like skin made it into something right out of prehistory. At least up until you saw the slug-propeller, looking like a pistol, in one of its giant hands. People would first be frightened by its horrific appearance, but they would not know true fear until they saw the madness in eyes that held vertical pupils of blood red.

Instinctively Sascha knew that this was the Captain. He walked with a purpose showing he would happily rip off someone’s head off, in the pursuit of a toilet. In fact, it looked like that is what he hoped to do.

Guessing that these were the last three pirates from the other ship, Sascha assumed that they were through dicking around with him. Likely they planned to join the three groups together and then flush him out with their numbers. At least that is what he would have done if he was in their shoes. Therefore, he needed to come up with something fast, for him that meant one thing. He needed to attack.

Checking the four, he had earlier attacked, he found their argument over as they had spread out and appeared attentive. Sascha speculated that they waited for the others to join them. Before he recognized what he was doing, the shootist was on the move, heading for an exit from the ducting not far away. Only as he moved, did it click home that he had decided to set an ambush, planning to catch the others in their approach, hoping to gain surprise one last time. Sascha knew the perfect place to spring that trap. He just had to get there in time.

Carefully dropping into a corridor, he found himself dusty and grimy, in particular where the swath of blood, from the third pirate he had killed, had coated his side. Sascha had to fight the urge to hurry, but he forced himself to keep an eye on both sets of pirates and never crossed a corridor without checking its camera. However, due mostly to the deliberate pace set by the Lizard Captain, he reached the galley in plenty of time. Sascha even had time to grab a quick drink and an energy packet while rehearsing the gamble in his mind. He guessed it was as likely to backfire as it was to succeed, relying as it did upon the pirates passing the galley without looking inside. If that happened, he would have little time to escape down, through an opening in the floor, into the lower set of ducts. Still it was his the chance, he could think of, to lower his enemy’s numbers.

Monitoring their progress, he was happy to see them moving through a corridor off one of the galley’s four entrances, the one opposite through which he had entered. With the extra time available, he popped down into the duct to examine his escape route. The good thing was that it was nearly a metre below the flooring, no slug would be able to travel through that much metal, bringing death from above. On the other hand, it ran straight for quite a distance and held multiple near-by entrances. He would have to be prepared to fight in the tunnel, if he made it that far.

Then he waited.

He flitted back and forth between the open hole and the wall beside the hatch, neither location seeming comfortable. Finally he decided on the wall, thinking that if he was discovered, he would just have to take as many with him as he could.

When he spotted their approach, he knew that Ivar would have cursed them their spacing, as they were bunched together, such that most would be taken out by a single grenade. To bad he did not have one. Also, the order of their march (Skeletal-Woman leading, followed by the lizard and the two women, with the four men bringing up the rear) meant that not all would be able to bring their weapons to bear on the same target behind them. Maybe it would not be as dangerous to attack as he feared?

Sascha mentally urged them onward as he watched on his visor. Hoping they would continue passed the galley, he flicked his guns to full automatic. It would not be an ambush of skill, the more needles flying at the pirates, the better chance of success he would have. If only they did not check the door.

Recognizing he held his breath, Sascha quietly let it go. He watched and he waited. And then the group walked by the door, seeming more concerned with vents than they were with rooms.

Counting to fifteen, not wanting to rush things, he triggered the hatch and as it silently opened, he stepped out, with guns pointed in the direction of the pirates. Still unaware of his presence he began to shoot. It was no time for his regular precision shooting, instead he sprayed needles from side to side, hoping to hit as many of the group as possible. Even if they were not killed, wounds may take them out of action. Continuing to fire, Sascha knew he was hitting targets, but payed little attention to the actual damage.

It was like he was the statue of some Goddess of the Hunt, breasts proudly jutting forward as he stood, with high-heel boots planted at shoulder width, and for six point two seconds his only movement was the gentle oscillation of wrists and hands. When those six point two seconds were over and his guns were empty, he did not think to reload, instead he jumped back into the galley. Hitting the switch to close the hatch, he slid over to the hole and slithered, feet first, down into his escape route. Then he reloaded his guns, before beginning to creep away, ready to fire on anybody who dropped down to join him. Wiggling backwards on knees and one hand he was unable to hear nothing to tell him the impact of his attack. No screams of the injured or of rage, nothing which allowed Sascha to guess how successful he had been.

The pirates had been completely unprepared, fierce though they may have been, they were a disorganized group who barely trusted or liked one another. They did not have the cohesiveness or the wariness group, trained like Dawson’s Bunch; therefore, they had not had anyone watching their backs. And they paid for it.

First to be hit was a man, second from the right, in the back row. In ways he was the most unfortunate, the needles from Sascha’s attack had stitched across his lower back, causing multiple injuries, none as serious as the severed spine. His legs gave out from beneath him, giving him know time to see his attacker from behind, instead he crumpled to the floor in paralyzed shock. Unlucky until the end, the man, who had turned to crime after killing someone drunken brawl, returned to his senses, just in time to realize that he was bleeding to death and could do nothing about it.

The man to his right was more fortunate in death. Shorter than his colleague, and with the barrel of the Sascha’s right hand gun moving upwards, the needles that hit him were to his upper torso. Many of them pierced his lungs, which would have caused him to suffocate in his own blood, if not for the three needles bursting into his heart and causing instant death.

Though Sascha was able to track his left hand gun to follow the right with great skill, when he targeted it independently he lost much of his accuracy. This meant that the two men on the left survived the attack. The man in the middle was wounded, in his right side and shoulder, but was able to clamp cover ups to each wound, stopping the bleeding. The fourth man, yappy Booser, was not even nicked by a needle. Though he dropped, like a stone, to the ground, covering his head with his arms.

However, Sascha’s left gun was not completely useless. Through fortune, more than design, some of those needles that had missed the two men passed by to strike one of the women, who had come aboard with the lizard, in the back of head.

The results of the attack were better than could possibly have been expected, yet the damage was not complete. Showing her lack of experience with guns, proving that some people should not be allowed to use them, Skeleton-Woman turned around, raised her energy gun, and began to fire. However, she had forgotten the giant lizard striding behind and blocking her unknown target. A giant lizard enraged enough by the burning pain to step forward and swing a clawed paw at the head of his tormentor.

Only the second woman, who had boarded with the lizard, saw as the Skeleton-Woman’s head was ripped, bouncing away, from her shoulders. This sight, competed with that of the slumping body of her dead sister. Disgusted with everything and know longer seeing the man, in the beast, who she had once loved, she raised her slug-propeller and fired into his back. Putting him down for good, something she now knew should have been done long ago.

Unaware of the havoc above him, Sascha worried about putting distance between him and his attack. It was a difficult and nervous backwards wiggle, over twenty five metres, before he found a crossing shaft. Holstering his guns, hoping speed would offer safety, he turned into that shaft and crawling headfirst repeated his escape from before, taking random corners and caring less about getting lost, then getting away. He spent at least five minutes, crawling through the ducts, before stopping to determine what had and happening. Though first he took a deep drink of water and tried to control his breathing, gasping as he was both from exertion and fear.

He did not expect what he saw, on the display of his visor, when he looked at the hall outside of the galley. Studying the bodies laying on the ground, he was thrilled to see that five of them, including the biggest ugly, were not moving. Even better, the remaining three seemed glued to the spot, nobody was chasing him. Unless...but no, the group with the Man-Statue also did not move. Instead they once more argued with each other. This time the tow Cyclops and the Red Demon did not back down, before the three started walking back in the direction from which they had come, Dornor trailing angrily, shouting, behind. When they met up with their remaining colleagues, outside the galley, he continued his argument, but again was rebuffed.

Finally in frustration he nodded his head, apparently agreeing with the other six. A second, brief argument was resolved when the remaining woman pointed her gun at the rest of them. This led to the larger Cyclops picking up and carrying her sister, as they all tramped back to the main hatch.

Hardly believing that they may actually be giving up, Sascha tried not to let his hopes build up. And it appeared wise when he saw them stop upon arrival at the hatch, though this time he was able to listen in on the audio pickup.

“I can’t believe that you shit-for-brains are giving up, there’s only one of them,” Dornor cajoled.

“And how many of the crew did that one kill?” asked the woman.

“That’s why we need to get our revenge.”

“Bah revenge is for some fuckin’ prick in a story book. Not for us. We’re pirates, though if you ask me it is pathetic to pirate some stinking ore freighter.”

“You know we can get some good money for the ship and the cargo if we find the right buyer Val.”

“Yeah right, if we find the right buyer. No fuckin’ way does it make any sense to take any more risk on some shifty if. Nope I’m getting out of here.”

Looking around at the rest of the pirates, seeing them nod their agreement, Dornor angrily shouted, “But I’m in charge.”

The response was not what he expected, suddenly finding himself facing five weapons, “Shit Dor why did you have to go and try to pull rank on us. I’ve already killed a captain today, and I once loved Shubort. Killing a first officer wouldn’t even require moments thought. Niclai, take Dornor’s weapon.”

Grinning at the woman and throwing her a cheeky salute, the unburdened Cyclops approached Dornor, while ensuring he did not get between the weapons of his fellow mutineers and their former first officer. Taking the energy gun from Dornor’s holster, he retreated once more to their sides.

The woman then said, “In fact I’d like to apply for Captaincy of the Jumping Toad. Too long has she been run by shit head, brute strength. I’m thinking that using brains would be a better choice. What do you all think?”

Gaining an approving word or nod from everybody except Dornor, she said, “Well I guess that’s settled. Actually just mostly settled. I know I can’t trust you Dor, you will have me constantly looking over my shoulder and I need my beauty sleep. So what is a girl to do?”

“Going to kill me, you treacherous bitch?”

“You always were a smooth talker Dor. Nah, I’m not going to kill you, we were once friends. Instead I am going to reward you with a ship to command. Course it’s somewhat damaged and there is a killer aboard, but you and that shit-head in the lizard suit thought it was a ship worth dying for, so I will give you your wish.”

“Fuck Val, you can’t do that to me.”

“Well as you often said, command doesn’t allow you to have friends.”

With those words the six of them, still with weapons trained on the Man-Statue backed one by one through the hatch into their own ship. The last through, was he who had been first aboard The Lady Tramp, the foul-mouthed Booser. Before he left, he grinned a malicious grin and shared one final thought. “Shit Dornor, Val sure did fuck you up good. Wish I could help you, but then I hate your guts. Honestly this is making my fucking year, after all it couldn’t happen to a better fucktard than you. Now I really must go, don’t go missing us. ‘Cause we sure as fuck won’t miss you.”

Stepping through the hatch, he triggered its closure, leaving both the camera and Dornor staring at a solid wall. The camera took it better than did the pirate, for it did not throw itself against the closed hatch banging its fists and shouting curses. However, Dornor was enough of a realist to soon realize how little good his ranting would do, instead he turned around and in an almost conversation tone said, “Well I guess its just me and you, Chickie-poo.”

Sascha found himself believing it was a trick and that the pirates would be back. Yet outside cameras showed their ship detaching itself from The Lady Tramp and pulling away, gaining speed as it went.

All of a sudden it felt real, but he knew it was not yet over. There was one more thing to do, for just like Val’s unwillingness to look over her shoulder, so to Sascha could not leave Dornor on the lose. As the old saying went, the ship was not big enough for the two of them. Tired of the entire shifty affair, Sascha was ready to bring it to an end; therefore, he found the nearest exit and climbed out into a corridor. Seeing that Dornor was not moving, he decided to forego stealth, instead he strolled through the halls towards his last objective, who seemed just as willing to see things come to an end.

Arriving at the final corner, Sascha stopped. Ensuring his two guns were fully loaded, he decided that the should know who was his killer, whose vengeance he had triggered. Therefore, he removed the claustrophobic helmet and wiped a sweaty brow with his dirty sleeve.

Then he stepped around the corner, with guns prepared. Dornor was not even aware of his arrival before Sascha’s two needle guns had dispensed their slivers of justice, slamming the large figure back against the wall. Yet Dornor did not collapse in a fountain of blood, instead he held himself up with a hand against the wall. With his other hand he reached up to feel his chest, under shredded shirt, and what he felt raised a smile on his face.

Sascha did not need to see the smile to know something had gone wrong, Without hesitating he fired once more, not into the Man-Statue’s chest, but at his face and head. This time he saw, rather than blasting through skin and bone, many of the needles bouncing off.

Dornor’s smile grew larger as he survived this second barrage with only a pocketed and chipped face, thrilled he said, “Fuck me. Fuck me. Who would ever have thought that I would have been happy about being fucked over by Transition?”

He was interrupted by another burst of needles slamming him against the wall, though causing no more damage than the previous two times.

“And who would have thought a little doll like you would have done so much damage. Those pussies should be fucking embarrassed to have been run off by a cock ornament like you. Well I guess it does mean that I get you all to myself.”

He then pushed himself away from the wall and began walking towards Sascha, a confident look on his chalky face. A confidence well found against the vast majority of the population. Yet anybody who had successfully passed level 30 on a Havoc Simulator was equipped with the knowledge to defeat Dornor. While traipsing towards the hatch, Sascha had found himself thinking that pirate reminded him of the Golem Lord, who guarded the last door of that level. Many a frustrating hour Sascha had spent, being virtually flattened time and time again, before stumbling upon a solution. He had not tried it immediately, realizing that you did not need something difficult, unless it was hard. But when what would have killed any human failed, Sascha knew it was time to make it difficult.

His last shots fired had not been to wound or kill, Sascha realized that would not work. Instead it had been to allow him time to reload his guns and switch them again to automatic. Therefore, when Dornor began to walk towards him, Sascha fired not at chest, nor at head, but at the narrow, planted, left ankle. A pant leg and boot was demolished, then a few shards of rock broke away before the pirate crashed down to the ground.

With a wordless growl Dornor pushed himself to his feet, only to be brought down in the same fashion. Two, three more times this happened, with the target getting angrier and angrier at the gnat who stung. Cursing at Sascha, unaware of what the shootist was doing, he actually took a full step while Sascha once more reloaded and sent him down to the floor again.

This time, when Dornor stood, he immediately clattered to ground, before Sascha could even shoot. Trying again, he was met by the same result. Frustrated, he looked down and learned what pain receptors would have once told him, no longer was there a foot below his right ankle, Sascha had shot it away. Disbelief turning into fiery rage he began crawling towards his tiny tormentor, who, seemingly with all the time in the world, began shooting at his left arm just above his elbow. Slightly narrower, it did not take nearly as many bursts before Sascha separated lower from upper arm.

Crippled, yet driven by anger, Dornor continued to slide forward, forcing to Sascha to move backwards down the hall. And as he stepped backwards, he continued to shoot, slowly carving away piece after piece. Yet Dornor would not die.

Finally rage gave away to horror at what had become of him, first during that horrible Transition and now wiggling like a slug on the ground. Giving up, he looked at Sascha, and in a clear voice said, “Kill me.”

Sascha, just as rattled by what was happening, stopped at these words and looked at Dornor with sympathy. Yet instead of doing anything, he holstered his gun, turned and walked away, down the corridor to the sound of a shouting. “No! Kill me. Please kill me.”

It was over fifteen minutes before Sascha returned to find Dornor, laying where he had left him, sobbing tearlessly. It was the cart that Sascha pushed, more then his own steps, that drew the man’s attention. First questioning, then a flicker of understanding came into his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything else to do,” Sascha apologized.

“Do it.”

“Are you sure? You promise not to do anything?”

“Do it.”

Nodding his head, Sascha carefully pushed the cart closer, paying close attention to see that the pirate did try a final, desperate trick. However, Dornor laid quietly. When he was as close as he needed to get, Sascha reached to the tanks on the cart and turned the valves until their contents flowed into attached hoses. Reaching down with shaking hand, no longer steady as it was when holding a pistol, he picked up the torch connected to the end of hoses. Finally he triggered the plasma flow from its nozzle and slowly cut the head from the motionless statue.

And then Sascha was alone with his revenge.

* * *

For one hundred and forty three days The Lady Tramp had floated through space, like a ghost ship, her distress beacon drawing no answer. And though she held her share of dead, the one who haunted her was still alive, Sascha.

It had been a nightmarish period for him, he was not used to being alone, nor was used to having time to think. At first he was able to escape into a paranoid fear that the pirates would return seeking their revenge. So he had spent his days and often sleepless nights planning and preparing for the next attack. Sascha learned every inch of the ship which he could use, both the corridors and the ducting above or below. He established barricades from behind which to fight and escape routes between each. However, after twenty some days he had switched from being worried that the pirates would return, to being scared that nobody would ever appear.

At this point he also fell into a deep depression as he finally began to mourn the loss of Foster. Though he had, early after the attack, gathered up the bodies of the pirates and placed them in a sealed storage room, he had never ventured into the nav/con centre. He initially excused it by telling himself that he did not know how to handle the depressurized room, yet he had never tried to gain the knowledge needed through a moments search on a console.

He finally understood that he did not want to see whatever was left of Foster. He missed the man’s laugh, his presence, his arms, his smell, even his taste. But mostly he missed the comfort and protection that Foster had offered.

Even though he recognized his thoughts were often selfish, he could not deny how real they were. He may not have loved Foster, in fact he likely did not even understand what it was, but he would have stayed by his side, playing whatever roles the pilot had wanted, without a second thought. It was so much easier pleasing others, being what they wanted to be, then trying to determine who he was himself. He even found himself dressing up in one of the costumes, in which Foster had loved to see him, escaping into different character for days at a time.

One such time, while dressed in his now commonly worn Keleesa costume, he found posing in front of a mirror. He knew some people, like Ivar Bandle, would think it strange, maybe even wrong, that he loved the way he looked. They would not recognize that to him it was who and what he was, maybe it was due to brainwashing or the expectations in which he had been raised. Whatever it was, it made him feel good to be pretty, even when no men were around to appreciate and want him. The hyper-feminine parts of being a sylph had always seemed more of a reward than punishment as some saw it.

Despite that he still considered himself a boy, possibly after what he had experience, a man, though unlike most he had ever known. He still could not see himself as a woman, since he still had no idea of being a woman was like. No, a sylph he would stay, he felt he needed to hold onto some truth.

Yet in making the decision to stay who he had always been, Sascha did not take the opportunity, even while bored witless, to try to change, to grow. He spent no time trying to learn new things, to gain skills that may offer him a future. For Sascha, if he was ever able to get of The Lady Tramp, his plan for the future was to find a man to look after him. For his adventures had proven that life was always better when he was protected.

So Sascha spent his time fighting off depression through fantasy, about what his life would be like when he was rescued. About the man who would take him in and what the two of them would do. How they would treat each other. The fun that they would have. He convinced himself that it would happen.

He did not let himself give into the despair, that fear that he would drift alone forever.

Thus was the state of his mind on the one hundred and forty third day, the day when the frigate Commodore Tony Blaus, a ship in the League of Planetary Systems’ navy, entered his pocket of space. With its appearance, his rescuers had arrived.

Sascha was nervous. He had dreamed about this moment so often, that it had almost entirely been pushed away from the realm of now. Luckily he had prepared and practiced for rescue, he could get ready in his sleep. Returning to his quarters, he changed into his rescue outfit, one that showed him as the helpless maiden in need of rescue. He then hurried to the main hatch, while thinking how much better it was to greet guests face to face, rather than hiding in some utility closet, planning their deaths.

Though he had arrived in plenty of time, Sascha was surprised when the hatch opened and five marines burst through. Though not as surprised as they were to see the small, black haired beauty, in the pretty blue dress and heels. Finally one of the men blurted out, “Who are you?”

“I’m Sascha.”

“Where is Foster Lansdowne? He is the registered operator of this vehicle.”

“Oh it was terrible, he was killed months ago when we were attacked by pirates.”

“Umm...I’m guessing your not one of those pirates?”

“Oh no, I was Foster’s companion.”

“Then what happened to the pirates?”

“I scared them away.”

Sascha did not understand why the men found that so funny, but he joined in with a smile. It was so good to no longer be alone.