The Captain of the Qeexer didn't realize the danger until it was too late.
His name was Chilo, he was a veteran star pilot and occasional smuggler from Nebari Prime, one of the worlds in the outer rim of the former Centauri Republic. With many of his usual customers and routes in disarray, he was nevertheless turning a nice profit by offering his services to some of the more well-to-do refugees of the collapsing Sector 332-J. At least, that'd been his intention. But somewhere along the way, as he had lent his aid for what had been intended as a mercenary endeavor, he'd discovered (much to his annoyance) that he had a heretofore unknown streak of sentimentality. Perhaps it'd been the desperate look of some of the women, or, even worse, the grateful faces of the children looking up at him. The Qeexer's comfortable compartment was twenty-nine passengers; Chilo crammed on forty-seven, many of them at less than the going rate and some of them----God help him---gratis. He considered it nothing short of a major weakness on his part. He could only hope for two things: that when this immediate crisis was over he'd come to his senses, and that he didn't suffer any mishap, since he firmly believed that no good deed ever went unpunished.
With the Qeexer's facilities stretched beyond capacity, Chilo decided to take a chance and cut through an area that was off his usual routes. On his starmaps it was listed as the Terminal Territory, a holdover from more than a century ago when fleets from tow neighboring worlds would take to the space between the worlds and blast away at each other. But that was long ago, and the area hadn't been a shooting gallery for ages. Granted, it had been the firm grip of the Centauri Republic---to say nothing of the Centauri's summary execution of the warring planetary heads as a warning to all concerned---that had brought a nominal peace to the area. And granted that, with the fall of the Cenaturi Republic, anything could happen. But Chilo couldn't believe that if the situation were to change, it could possibly happen fast enough to be a threat to his ship or passengers.
He thought that for as long as it took for the first of the attack ships to drop out of warp.
He'd gotten halfway through the Terminal Territory when his sensors began screaming alarms at him from all sides. Frightened passengers began to call to him, asking what was going on, and all he could tell them to do was to shut up and buckle down. He couldn't believe what his sensors were telling him: attack vessels on both sides of him, all of them many times the size of Chilo's modest transport, taking aim at one another. They didn't give a damn about him. They were only interested in blowing each other out of space.
Unfortunately, the Qeexer was squarely in the way.
Chilo banked furiously, slamming the controls forward, as the Qeexer desperately tried to get clear of the area before the shooting started.
The vessels opened fire and suddenly the entire area of space was a hot zone. The ships fired with on particular grace or artistry, making no attempt to pinpoint respective targets and try for maximum damage with minimum fuss. Instead it was as if they were so overjoyed to have restraints removed from them that they simply let fly with everything they had. Blasts flew everywhere without regard for innocent bystanders. The attitude of the combatants was simple: Anyone who was within range should never have wandered in there in the first place.
The Qeexer was hit twice amidships, and then a third time. The engines were blown completely off line, and only the laws of physics saved it, for the impact of the blasts sent the ship spiraling wildly. And since objects in motion tend to stay in motion, the Qeexer was hurled out of immediate danger as the already existing speed of the ship carried it away from the firefight which had erupted in the Terminal Territory.
Which did nothing to solve the Qeexer's long-term problems. Chilo desperately tried to keep the ship on course, but failed miserably. The ship was utterly out of control. Chilo endeavored to concentrate on fixing the situation. But it was all he could do to focus on the problem at hand, for he had cracked his head fiercely on the control console when he was first hit. There was every likelihood that he was concussed. Indeed, he felt a distant blackness already trying to settle on him, and it was all he could do to fight it away.
Out of control, unpiloted, and with apparently no hope in hell, the Qeexer spiraled away into the void. Behind them two mighty fleets continued to shoot at each other, uncaring of the damage they were doing. Within ten minutes the battle was over, as battles in space tended to end fairly quickly. The surviving ships limped back to their respective homes, and word was sent out that the Terminal Territory was to be avoided at all costs.
Word that the Qeexer would have been happy to spread---provided that anyone on it survived to spread it. 565Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzsNklYBsqP
