As the twitching died away, so too did Damien's laughter, replaced with a philosophical appreciation. How interesting space was, so calm, so quiet, so vast. Myriad species declared themselves masters of space, and yet they were nothing in the face of it, particularly when ejected into its dark, eternal embrace without any means of injecting yourself with oxygen. Like a doll absentmindedly tossed away, spinning in a dizzying struggle before finally coming to a limp rest. And such a pretty doll it was! Lush dark curls that cascaded down her slender frame to touch the small of her back now floated about like sluggish snakes moving like molasses to escape their former huddle; big doe eyes that now stared lifelessly into the distant Krosanan sun, insulting its glory with their inattention; high, proud cheekbones that had left a mark on his knuckles when she had shown her first bit of defiance. Yes, these Krosanans, as they called themselves, were a pretty sort of savage. Even the men seemed lovely, and would fetch a high price among those with a taste for that sort of thing. No matter what you were selling, there was always a buyer somewhere.
"Close the airlock," Damien said, disinterest lightening his tone considerably as he turned away from the window.
"I didn't get my turn!" came the brutish hiss of one of his companions. A large man, pushing seven feet and as thick as a house, with one dark eye and one cybernetic implant, a shaved head, and a scar that ran from neck to navel. "I wanted to rip that lil' piece in two!"
"Come come, Asterix," Damien soothed, "There are plenty of others. Take your pick."
"I wanted that one!" the big man roared.
"Well, you're welcome to go fetch her, Old Sport" Damien chuckled, and propelled himself up the ladder, the artificial gravity having already been disabled in preparation for the phasing. "Come now, we must get into our beds. Can't be letting nightmares into the ship, now can we?"
"I wanted that one," Asterix grumbled again, and with some further choice words he followed his captain into the crew quarters.
"Cap'n" another brute greeted them as they passed the helm, "They've found what we left 'em, and seem to of found us as well."
Pushing off a bulkhead, Damien glided towards the crewman, catching the chair to bring himself to a halt. "Have they identified us?"
"They may just be fishing for rads, but it'll lead 'em to us shore as you know it, cap'n. I give us a few hours before they really take after us."
Damien nodded at that, but his attention was taken with the display before him. The merchant freighter, once full of crew and merchandise, now floated as a shelled husk, surrounded by floating corpses and broken debris. It had been a sweet action, that, Damien recalled it all now with the golden light of memory, and the appreciation of a sadist. They'd approached under friendly colours, feigning need and promising trade of fine wares for essential supplies to see them to the nearest port. It had worked well enough to get them well in range, and then the guns had been revealed and brought to bear, and the lads had crossed over into the newly created openings. A good haul, as well. Several tons of equipment and wares, and twenty prime cuts of flesh for the slave markets. A very pretty people, indeed, and Damien praised the Spirits again for having led him to this beautiful fishery, unknown to the other crews back home. He'd like to keep it that way. "How long until we phase?"
"An hour, cap'n."
"Ah," Damien grinned, "Then nothing to worry about, Old Sport! I'm off to pods, make sure you set us right before joining us."
"Aye, cap'n"
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The Dardanelle sped through the void, running black and unseen with its hull lights off as it approached critical velocity. The crew and cargo suspended in dreamless stasis, the ship's computer activated the phase-shift, folding the fabric of reality and taken the pirate skiff beyond the physical realm into that formless, timeless sphere of thought and emotion that was the Immaterium, leaving behind it a young girl. Naked, frozen, dead. She floated through space alone, her dead fingers fastened tight around a cigar butt she'd grabbed from her captor's lips as he'd flung her into the airlock after having had his way with her. The rosy tip had long since extinguished, leaving a perfect extension of ash that ran down towards a golden label. A label that told of the fine quality of Dover tobacco, harvested by hand in the heart of the Consortium. Yes, friends, there was no finer tobacco in all of Taledonia!
