lture, the slightest sign of weakness might encourage a mutiny and the election of a replacement, who would undoubtedly be younger and stronger, or perhaps just more popular. As a Corsair lead

ures across the rim worlds and badlands of Terran space – tales of bloody infamy! That was his trademark,

silk shirt as Kilroy strode his way across it to the waiting shuttle, evoking a feeling like the fingers of fate were caressing his body. "The Hammer" stepped over the body of one of his fallen crew without a trace of care or concern. The air rushed past him, like a wind, out into space through the wounds in the side of his ship. Fatigued and desp

h along with the rest or risk capture at the hands of the accursed Terran ship that was still firing on them, pounding his flagship into a shambles. Internal chain explosions were ripping out t

isily, a haggard unshaven face appeared at the doorway, and urged him to hasten. As desperate as their

e maelstrom of the booming explosions, the rising thunder of

, the huge doors of the launch bay finally gave in without warning, and blew outward. Kilroy grimaced, looking over the shoulder of the pilot through the viewports on the cramped flight deck, hol

lame and fading atmosphere as minor explosions became major ones. Flames engulfed the festering carcass in a purifying ball of flame as they shot clear of it! The shuttle accelerated, the pilot hoping

being hauled in. The tractor was inescapable, and they knew it. The shuttle's small yet potent engines s

egan to roll shut, cutting off their escape. Through the side viewports, his crewmates alerted him to the arrival of a platoon of security marines as they came running from the entrance of the main airlock, in full body armor, weapons bristling. Kilroy eyed

ender immediately! Shut down all systems! Come out slowly, in single file, with your ha