Sirens. Smoke. Fire. The stench of burnt plastic and insulation. The signs of a stricken ship of war. Crewman Davos pokes his head over the barricade and cracks off a burst of fire from his phaser rifle at the boarders. “Bloody pirates,” he growls as return fire forces him back down. “Sarge, what the hell does the Orion Syndicate want with an obsolete junk frigate like this anyway?” I shake my head. “If I had to guess—Hah!” My pistol shot strikes the pirate squarely in the midsection and flings him hard against a wall. “Mmf. Probably our security codes.” 29 years since I was born. “Carry on.”