“Heads up,” Allen called out. “I’ve got movement.”

Silence fell on the bridge, everyone, including Mason, holding their breath as they watched the viewscreen in front of them. The next few moments stretched for infinity, until, finally…

Underspace unfurled in front of them.

“Hit it!” Mason ordered, but the ship was already moving, Kovash’s expression set as she hurtled them toward the ever opening aperture.

“Hostiles incoming!” Harrow barked even as they all saw the threat on the main viewscreen. “Weapons hot.”

“Fire! Full use,” Mason growled, not bothering with any fancy orders or commands. This crew were battle-hardened and experienced and the equation was a simple one. The Resolute was going in, no matter how many of these assholes they had to blast out of the way. The only reason they would be coming back here, to a ruined system, would be to finish what they started.

Not happening. Not on his watch.

Not with a system—ships—that couldn’t defend themselves behind him. Hundreds of thousands of lives, of people he’d never met, and one, special life, that meant this was personal, relying on him to get this right.

The Resolutes weapons systems lit up space around them, following by the lazy blossoming of explosions as two of the small fighter ships blew up.

“Two direct hits,” Harrow confirmed, voice grim as he concentrated on the console in front of him. “Kovash, break right. Roll on my mark. Mark.”

The ship suddenly wrenched to the right, forcing them all to grip their chair arms before the inertial dampeners kicked in. Harrow fired again, laying down a barrage of fire right where an enemy ship would be seconds later.

There were things about Harrow no one understood, like his ability to dominate the weekly poker games, but Mason had quickly realised in a firefight, the tactical officer seemed to know where the enemy was going to be, even before they did. Odd for the bog-standard  human Harrow’s records claimed he was.

The enemy ship almost hit a dead stop, rolling and tumbling slowly in space, until another volley hit it dead center and it exploded right there in the middle of the viewscreen.

“That last hit wasn’t me,” Harrow warned. “I was just getting targeting lock.”

“We’ve got company. On screen.” Mason spotted movement on the edge of the viewscreen and rattled off sector codes. A sleek, dangerous looking ship appeared in the middle of the screen, for all of a second before it was gone again, only to reappear practically above one of the enemy ships and rake a deadly phaser volley right down the spine of the ship.

“It’s a civilian ship,” Allen called out. “Commonly used by both traders and pirates. Non-standard configuration and weapons loadout. And they have a cloak. So I figure they’re pirates.”

“As long as they’re helping us deal with these assholes,” Mason growled, his expression tight. “Then the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Harrow, let’s take care of the group on the right.”