There were many skills a hunter needed: careful preparation, a good eye, and a tremendous amount of patience.
Of these, patience was the important.
Vander Kail had never been a patient man. He dwelt on this as he studied his reflection in the darkened canopy. Generations of impeccable breeding and years of physical training had fashioned him into an imposing figure: broad shouldered, sculpted; handsome in the way that old furniture was handsome. The gene-scalpel of Achenar’s finest fleshsmiths had scarcely touched him.
And yet in the eyes of the Kail family, he was deemed a marked disappointment. Second in line to the family estate, there had been expectations placed upon him. Responsibilities. The merchant fleets had needed a supervisor, a steady hand at the tiller. There had been dozens of obvious ways for him to follow in the footsteps of his father, to honour the family name. Kail had ignored them all. His interests had been decidedly more immediate. No banking conferences or high vaulted guild halls for him, no Sir.
Instead he chose the black.
There had been resistance. Of course there was. A career in the Imperial Navy was no place for a Kail, they said. Leave interstellar work to those it befitted; the stevedores and journeymen. He knew how to fly, had proven himself in the training grounds as a boy. Let that be the end of it, they said.
Kail had never been much of a listener.
“Uh, Cubeo to Kail; are we going to sit there and brood all day, or are we gonna to get to work already?”
That was his first mate, Katya. Whether she had a last name or not Kail wasn’t certain – Feds were edgy like that, and Katya was no exception. Her scalp was shaved on both sides, studded with inset diamonds that glittered whenever she fidgeted. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. Where Kail’s bodyglove was a no-nonsense ebony, Katya wore a tattered jacket and more belts than any one person had any business wearing.
“Patience, Kat.”
“I have patience, Kail. We’ve been here for weeks. Hendrik isn’t showing.”
“He’ll show.”
The asteroid field ahead was muted stillness; an endless stretch of glittering rock and swirling particles. Mining lasers strobed in the distance.
Katya’s finger jabbed at the targeting computer.
“Martin Smyth. Type Six. Clean.”
Another jab. A heavier Type Nine; a lumbering brute of a mass hauler.
“Horatio Pullo.” She announced in a grandiose voice. “Honestly what is it with you Imps and your fancy names?”
Once again, Kail wasn’t listening. His attention was fixed entirely on the starscape beyond.
In the distance was the pulsing flare of a propulsion drive. New contact; seven klicks and closing fast on the Type Nine. Whoever Horatio Pullo was, he was about to have a very bad day.
Even before the scan had finished, a prickling sensation ran up Kail’s neck. The target profile of the Federal Assault Ship was distinctive: a saw-toothed arrowhead; all snarling gun ports and bulk plating. The Devourer had been on the Fabian City listings for some time. Two hundred thousand credits, all for the taking.
Cash Kail intended to collect.
“Power to engines,” Kail instructed, “Let’s get to work.”
“Showtime.” Katya hissed, fingers dancing across the haptic display.
The heavy engines of the Imperator thrummed to life as they surged forward. White hulled and smoothly graceful, the Imperial Clipper was the very antithesis of the Devourer’s might. They slid forward in the dark, weapons primed.
There were many skills a hunter needed, Kail smiled to himself.
And skills could be learned.
Of these, patience was the important.
Vander Kail had never been a patient man. He dwelt on this as he studied his reflection in the darkened canopy. Generations of impeccable breeding and years of physical training had fashioned him into an imposing figure: broad shouldered, sculpted; handsome in the way that old furniture was handsome. The gene-scalpel of Achenar’s finest fleshsmiths had scarcely touched him.
And yet in the eyes of the Kail family, he was deemed a marked disappointment. Second in line to the family estate, there had been expectations placed upon him. Responsibilities. The merchant fleets had needed a supervisor, a steady hand at the tiller. There had been dozens of obvious ways for him to follow in the footsteps of his father, to honour the family name. Kail had ignored them all. His interests had been decidedly more immediate. No banking conferences or high vaulted guild halls for him, no Sir.
Instead he chose the black.
There had been resistance. Of course there was. A career in the Imperial Navy was no place for a Kail, they said. Leave interstellar work to those it befitted; the stevedores and journeymen. He knew how to fly, had proven himself in the training grounds as a boy. Let that be the end of it, they said.
Kail had never been much of a listener.
“Uh, Cubeo to Kail; are we going to sit there and brood all day, or are we gonna to get to work already?”
That was his first mate, Katya. Whether she had a last name or not Kail wasn’t certain – Feds were edgy like that, and Katya was no exception. Her scalp was shaved on both sides, studded with inset diamonds that glittered whenever she fidgeted. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. Where Kail’s bodyglove was a no-nonsense ebony, Katya wore a tattered jacket and more belts than any one person had any business wearing.
“Patience, Kat.”
“I have patience, Kail. We’ve been here for weeks. Hendrik isn’t showing.”
“He’ll show.”
The asteroid field ahead was muted stillness; an endless stretch of glittering rock and swirling particles. Mining lasers strobed in the distance.
Katya’s finger jabbed at the targeting computer.
“Martin Smyth. Type Six. Clean.”
Another jab. A heavier Type Nine; a lumbering brute of a mass hauler.
“Horatio Pullo.” She announced in a grandiose voice. “Honestly what is it with you Imps and your fancy names?”
Once again, Kail wasn’t listening. His attention was fixed entirely on the starscape beyond.
In the distance was the pulsing flare of a propulsion drive. New contact; seven klicks and closing fast on the Type Nine. Whoever Horatio Pullo was, he was about to have a very bad day.
Even before the scan had finished, a prickling sensation ran up Kail’s neck. The target profile of the Federal Assault Ship was distinctive: a saw-toothed arrowhead; all snarling gun ports and bulk plating. The Devourer had been on the Fabian City listings for some time. Two hundred thousand credits, all for the taking.
Cash Kail intended to collect.
“Power to engines,” Kail instructed, “Let’s get to work.”
“Showtime.” Katya hissed, fingers dancing across the haptic display.
The heavy engines of the Imperator thrummed to life as they surged forward. White hulled and smoothly graceful, the Imperial Clipper was the very antithesis of the Devourer’s might. They slid forward in the dark, weapons primed.
There were many skills a hunter needed, Kail smiled to himself.
And skills could be learned.
