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some alive. Don’t fry them unless you have no choice.”
    A chorus of acknowledgments came over the speakers, and then the midsized Manta cruisers joined the fray. Flying fast, the
     Remoras opened fire with concentrated jazer pulses, and all hell broke loose.
    Fed up with standing on the sidelines, Rlinda ran to the communications console and with one big shoulder knocked Lanyan out
     of the way. She adjusted the frequency to the
Voracious Curiosity
’s private channel. “BeBob, get your ass out of there! If I don’t see you moving out of the firing zone in five seconds, I’m
     going to come over there and do it myself.”
    “Don’t need to tell me twice, Rlinda,” BeBob’s surprisingly firm voice answered, but she knew he was just putting on a brave
     mask. Branson Roberts could be cool in a crisis, but he was not a boulder-headed hero-in-training.
    The
Voracious Curiosity
changed course to head down the Z-axis below Yreka’s ecliptic and away from the battle zone. Not a scratch from a stray blast
     or a ricochet. Rlinda breathed a sigh of relief, but told herself it was only because she wanted the
Curiosity
to be clean and undamaged for her upcoming trip to Theroc.
    The Mantas crippled the pirate ships, and Remoras rounded up the vessels in short order. One EDF pilot scorched his hand when
     a control panel sparked out due to a malfunction that had been missed during the recent inspection overhaul. That man became
     Lanyan’s sole casualty.
    The corsairs’ hodge-podge of ships hung corralled within the surrounding barricade of EDF vessels. The spacecraft looked old
     and patched, strange designs assembled from mismatched components and mixed-up blueprints. Their hulls were scarred, their
     engines damaged in the recent fight.
    “I want all prisoners shuttled over to my Juggernaut,” Lanyan said. “Bring them to the cargo bay. Make sure you put neural
     clamps on their wrists and strip them of all weapons.”
    Next, EDF soldiers began the most dangerous part of the operation, boarding the nine remaining corsair vessels and taking
     prisoners. While they removed the pirate crews, leaving the ragtag vessels guarded by designated troops, one corsair captain
     initiated a critical overload, attempting to blow up his vessel and vaporize any EDF forces within range. But the botched
     self-destruct routine succeeded only in melting down the engine core, burning through the hull, and shooting out a narrow
     jet of fire. The unexpected venting made the corsair ship careen out of control like a whirligig, until it finally sputtered
     out and drifted in space, dark and ruined, not even worth the salvage.
    Rlinda accompanied General Lanyan to the Juggernaut’s cargo bay, where thirty-one prisoners were brought forward. The men
     stood helpless with angry eyes and tattered shirts, hands bound, rich in dignity but poor in common sense.
    “Which one is Rand Sorengaard?” Lanyan swept his ice-blue eyes across them, working his jaw to contain his indignation. “And
     don’t play any stupid tricks. You’ll all face the same punishment anyway.”
    The men glanced at each other, trying to look haughty, jaws clenched, eyes blazing. Several of the pirates appeared ready
     to step forward in a foolish attempt at bravery, but a tall, lantern-jawed man volunteered first. He looked at the others
     with the sure, confident gaze of a leader. “You men stand down. I’ll face my own crimes.” He turned to Lanyan. “I’m Rand Sorengaard.
     I don’t recognize your authority to arrest me.”
    “Aww, are you trying to hurt my feelings? Maybe you’d better make your excuses to this lady here.” The General put a hand
     on Rlinda’s shoulders. “You stole one of her ships and killed her crew. Did you ask those people if they recognized
your
authority?”
    “We were acquiring needed resources,” Sorengaard said. “You call us pirates, and yet the Big Hansa Goose has imposed tariffs
     and trade restrictions on anything the