Marie's Fury, Windsole's Nebula, Ares Super Cluster...
"Qu'est-ce que vous avez dit?"
"I said, 'We want you to accept their challenge," Lieutenant Horimoto repeated, his voice as level and as neutral as the gray uniform he wore. This was in contrast to the Captain and crew of Marie's Fury, which ranged from fabulously piratical to everyday dockworker with not a single note of uniformity between them. Captain - Lord, as the hierarchy of the Sanglanti pirates went - du Fontaine was decked out in a large slouch-brimmed hat and an intricately cut doublet and trousers with a wide belt bracketed with pistols on either side and a rapier hanging at his waist.
"Why?"
"Because we know very little about these Vorr," the odd man out answered. Unlike the rest of the deck crew, which stood casually near their stations, he was off to the side and half in the shadows where his features were near-indistinguishable. Reflecting his businesslike-tone, he stood at what might be called parade rest, though the organization he belonged to did not regularly indulge in such traditions. He was a traditional man, however, and from a traditional family that stretched back through the joint effort that had established his homeland and further back to the previous Imperial age. His father had been an officer, his father as well, and so he too was an officer, though the rising sun had been replaced by orange and gold.
"They've issued a challenge, apparently as part of a ritual hunt. They seek warriors and hunters who are their equal."
"Then why did you not take up this défi," Marq said, stabbing his finger into the man's chest. "Pourquoi posez-vous cela sur nous?"
"Because the Republic Defense Force is a professional service - We do not engage in pointless combat."
"Merde... And this is not what you pay us to do either," he countered, "Or what we do ourselves - Nous sommes des aventuriers audacieux, pas de petits voyous! You ask us to lay our lives down so you can learn something? Where is your honor?"
"Mon honneur est le mien, and what risk is there? We will replace your ships, your bodies - all we ask you to do is fight. Obviously, you will be well rewarded, and already have," Horimoto said, continuing, "There will be a substantial bonus offered, win or lose. Say... Two ships, of your choosing."
There was not even a moment of calculation behind du Fontaine's dark eyes, "Deux navires? Whatever we want? Where?" He corrected, "Where will this trial take place?"
"Here. The Vorr will begin their hunt once we have formally accepted the challenge;" Though this wasn't entirely accurate. The Republic wouldn't answering the Vorr's challenge. They had already refused. Instead they had directed the Vorr to Admiral du Paix, who had in turn suggested Lord du Fontaine as suitable to the task. Horimoto was the go-between, a liaison between the scattered pirate flotillas and their secret paymasters in Republic Intelligence - though as many star-states maintained unofficial privateers it was more a sideways secret than truly hush-hush.
"Et toi?"
"I - we - will be watching. Fight well, Capitaine..."
And then he was gone, faded away just as suddenly as he'd appeared. Lord du Fontaine looked first to his crew and then to his surroundings, suddenly aware that time was not on his side. The nebula was the ideal place for such a thing with broad bands of gas in various densities scattered across nearly half a parsec - something like two light years - of space with a smattering of asteroids and proto-planets for variety but so too was his fleet scattered.
"Connard - Appelez-les plus près. Nous trouverons une couverture parmi les astéroïdes et attendrons que nos invités arrivent..."
To call it a fleet would be to inflate its ego. Perhaps if substituted by Republic WarShips it could be called such, but a handful of Raiders and the battered old Draconis-Class Cruiser that could be called a flagship did not a fleet make. His best hope would be in the pair of Republic-supplied Corsairs that hung behind him but to win a pitched battle would be an interesting trick; They were pirates and smugglers, in the end.
"...Merde! Qu'ai-je accepté?"