Location: Hyperspace near Aztlan
Date: 204.02.28

Commodore Chandler studies the casualty reports from the front with a frown while the task force makes its way through the bleakness of hyperspace.

War has broken out with the Persean League again, and initial engagements have been inconclusive. Chandler's ships have been hastily shaken loose from the massive defense fleets around Chicomoztoc and dispatched to the front lines, perhaps with no greater goal than to improve the Hegemony's bargaining position before the diplomats go to work.

As he sits at his command console, brow furrowed, alarms blare at the sensor officer's station. "Contact! Bearing zero-one-seven by zero-zero-three, range 2500!"

They must have been hiding in deep hyper for just this moment. The details of the unknown fleet start appearing on the main display, and Chandler stares warily. All the ship classes are those the Tri-Tachyon Corporation might use, but there's something off about the readings. As if they've been significantly modified... which can only mean –

"They're hailing us, sir," the comm officer's voice cuts in before he can complete the thought.

The face that appears on his viewscreen is that of a peroxide blonde in a garish purple outfit, wearing enough eyeshadow to deflect an antimatter blaster. "That's a nice fleet you have there, Commodore," she says, waggling a cigarette between well-manicured fingers. "It must be loaded to the deckhead with supplies. I'm sure you can spare a small portion – say, thirty-five percent – for the cause."

"And if we refuse?" Chandler demands, gritting his teeth.

She takes a lengthy drag, a thick nicotine-laden puff emerging from cherry red lips when she exhales.

"Then die."