wore scarred, bulky black space suits and carried short, deadly looking weapons with gaping barrels and well-worn magazines. Their visors were mirrored, concealing the troops’ faces. They reflected only the steel girders of the hangar like a fun-house mirror.
On the suit helmets, Matt recognized the red, thousand-daggers insignia of the Corsair Confederacy. Back at the base circling Alpha Centauri A, he’d played Union vs. Corsairs with the kids. He never wanted to play as a Corsair. Never. He’d only play as Union. He wanted to bring people together. He wanted to save them. Why would anyone play as a Corsair? Hot tears streamed down his cheeks.
Matt’s dad groaned and tried to stand again. It was a terrible sound. Matt shivered, his mouth dry. Even without his Perfect Record, he knew he’d never forget this day.
“We’ll make it!” his dad said, dragging himself along the floor toward Matt. His limp leg trailed blood.
The approaching Corsairs looked at one another, as if in amusement. They didn’t hurry. They just sauntered. As if nothing could stop them.
A red-hot dagger of anger shot through Matt. He didn’t think. He just moved. He ran for the Powerloader.
He expected the Corsairs to yell or try to intercept him, but he didn’t turn around to check on them. He had to get in the Powerloader. Fast.
He scrambled up the steel tube and threw himself in the seat, punching the control panel for the smallest operator. The hand grips and foot pedals whirred closer. He strained to reach them. Slipped in a foot pedal. Caught a hand grip.
The Powerloader jerked to life. Matt lost his balance and fell against the Hedgehog. The ship slid sideways on the steel grate with an incredible screech. Matt levered himself upright and finally dared to look.
The Corsairs had stopped to watch. One had stepped forward to the front and opened his helmet. He wore a thin, sarcastic grin. Flanking him were two Corsairs. Both pointed their weapons at Matt. Bright orange fusion flares glowed deep in their barrels.
It was over. There was nothing he could do.
Matt didn’t care. In four shambling steps, he placed himself between the Corsairs and his father. He held out his big, steel-tube arms, blocking their way.
The lead Corsair laughed. “Should I shoot through you, child?”
“No!” Dad screamed. “Don’t hurt him!”
The Corsair leaned down to look at Matt’s dad through the frame of the Powerloader. “Then let’s talk.”
Silence for a moment. The wind howled louder outside, bringing the rattle and ping of sand against the steel walls.
“What do you want?” Dad’s voice was a little more than a whisper.
The Corsair reached out a hand. “Your slate.”
Dad hugged the slate closer to his chest. “Never.”
“We already have most of your data. Give me the slate, and you and your son may go free, and you can continue your archaeological adventures with the Union.”
“No.”
“I don’t like that word, ‘no.’ Wouldn’t you like to run with your son on the beaches of Eridani?”
Matt jerked back, surprised. He heard his dad gasp. How did the Corsair know about that?
And suddenly, Matt saw exactly what would happen. His father was dead, no matter if he gave them the slate or not. It was how Corsairs worked. They weren’t just boogeymen conjured up to scare kids like him. They were absolutely, totally real. They took everything. Even lives. Especially lives.
Matt screamed and charged at the Corsairs. Pistons fumed and pumped. His arms reached out to crush them.
But the Corsairs just watched him. Matt’s Powerloader was powerful, but it wasn’t fast. He bumbled toward the enemy, the two Corsairs with fusion rifles taking their time as they rose to track him.
“Don’t hurt him!” Dad screamed. He took the slate and slung it low over the hangar deck.
It skidded to a halt a meter in front of the lead Corsair. He leaned down and scooped it up. “Thank you.”
The Corsair nodded at the two with
On the suit helmets, Matt recognized the red, thousand-daggers insignia of the Corsair Confederacy. Back at the base circling Alpha Centauri A, he’d played Union vs. Corsairs with the kids. He never wanted to play as a Corsair. Never. He’d only play as Union. He wanted to bring people together. He wanted to save them. Why would anyone play as a Corsair? Hot tears streamed down his cheeks.
Matt’s dad groaned and tried to stand again. It was a terrible sound. Matt shivered, his mouth dry. Even without his Perfect Record, he knew he’d never forget this day.
“We’ll make it!” his dad said, dragging himself along the floor toward Matt. His limp leg trailed blood.
The approaching Corsairs looked at one another, as if in amusement. They didn’t hurry. They just sauntered. As if nothing could stop them.
A red-hot dagger of anger shot through Matt. He didn’t think. He just moved. He ran for the Powerloader.
He expected the Corsairs to yell or try to intercept him, but he didn’t turn around to check on them. He had to get in the Powerloader. Fast.
He scrambled up the steel tube and threw himself in the seat, punching the control panel for the smallest operator. The hand grips and foot pedals whirred closer. He strained to reach them. Slipped in a foot pedal. Caught a hand grip.
The Powerloader jerked to life. Matt lost his balance and fell against the Hedgehog. The ship slid sideways on the steel grate with an incredible screech. Matt levered himself upright and finally dared to look.
The Corsairs had stopped to watch. One had stepped forward to the front and opened his helmet. He wore a thin, sarcastic grin. Flanking him were two Corsairs. Both pointed their weapons at Matt. Bright orange fusion flares glowed deep in their barrels.
It was over. There was nothing he could do.
Matt didn’t care. In four shambling steps, he placed himself between the Corsairs and his father. He held out his big, steel-tube arms, blocking their way.
The lead Corsair laughed. “Should I shoot through you, child?”
“No!” Dad screamed. “Don’t hurt him!”
The Corsair leaned down to look at Matt’s dad through the frame of the Powerloader. “Then let’s talk.”
Silence for a moment. The wind howled louder outside, bringing the rattle and ping of sand against the steel walls.
“What do you want?” Dad’s voice was a little more than a whisper.
The Corsair reached out a hand. “Your slate.”
Dad hugged the slate closer to his chest. “Never.”
“We already have most of your data. Give me the slate, and you and your son may go free, and you can continue your archaeological adventures with the Union.”
“No.”
“I don’t like that word, ‘no.’ Wouldn’t you like to run with your son on the beaches of Eridani?”
Matt jerked back, surprised. He heard his dad gasp. How did the Corsair know about that?
And suddenly, Matt saw exactly what would happen. His father was dead, no matter if he gave them the slate or not. It was how Corsairs worked. They weren’t just boogeymen conjured up to scare kids like him. They were absolutely, totally real. They took everything. Even lives. Especially lives.
Matt screamed and charged at the Corsairs. Pistons fumed and pumped. His arms reached out to crush them.
But the Corsairs just watched him. Matt’s Powerloader was powerful, but it wasn’t fast. He bumbled toward the enemy, the two Corsairs with fusion rifles taking their time as they rose to track him.
“Don’t hurt him!” Dad screamed. He took the slate and slung it low over the hangar deck.
It skidded to a halt a meter in front of the lead Corsair. He leaned down and scooped it up. “Thank you.”
The Corsair nodded at the two with
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