“You’re Hapan Intelligence. You tell me,” Dasquian said, with a huff of laughter. “My brother is - was - a Commodore in the Royal Navy. My father was a pirate. Ishara Alastor publically denounced my family as threats to the throne. I’ve spent the past decade as a known terrorist and enemy of one of the largest military forces in the Galaxy, with my name and face on bounty boards from the Core to the Rim. There are… any number of reasons why this captain might know my family name.”
“Ah, sir,” Dalla Magre held up a hand. “Sorry. Is there… anything I can do? Should we try to.. reel in the distress beacon?”
Dasquian shook his head, glad at least that the communications officer was still level-headed. “No. If they’re concerned about it, they’ll shoot it out of the sky. Otherwise, we stand by the fact that the ship is too damaged to pull it back in.” There was a possibility, of course, that the beacon had already been disabled. The Argentine’s systems were in a sufficiently damaged state that it was difficult to say with certainty whether the sensor readouts were reporting accurately. Still, they could hope.
“With no disrespect to your professions, anyone whose skills aren’t absolutely necessary to keep this cruiser afloat should join the passengers in the escape pod. I’m sure they would feel reassured by your presence.” At this, Dasquian looked around the rather crowded cockpit. The pilot and co-pilots remained in place, but at a grudging nod from the captain, the navigator and junior technicians shared a few uncertain words in their native tongue before slipping away.
“Captain, would you care to join us at the docking hatch?” It was a courtesy that had to be offered, Dasquian knew.
“Yes,” the captain squared his shoulders. His ash-white cheeks had lost some of their colour. Either he was calmer, or his anger had cooled into something more controlled. “I should be the one to bring them aboard. This is my ship.”
Catching Alice’s eye, Dasquian gestured towards the cockpit exit. “Lead on, then, captain.”
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