"We've had it, boss." Sandoval's voice came in like a knell of doom. "Torpedo caught us right on the drive lattice. The drives are shot."
"Enemy cruiser coming up dead astern," the talker said. "Range eighty—closing slowly."
The "Dauntless" lay dead—coasting through space. The faint hiss of escaping air and the clatter of booted feet were the only sounds in the hull. The lights still burned on emergency power—but the drive and the powerplant were gone, and with them the "Dauntless" capability to fight.
Fiske wondered dully what was keeping the ship intact. Somehow the riddled hulk had failed to explode in the sunburst that usually marked the finish of a fighting ship. The guns were silenced. The last mine and torpedo had been fired. The intercom was a shambles of shorted circuits and dead lines. A hole fully a foot across had been ripped through the right side of the control room giving a free opening onto the blackness of space. One more shell, Fiske thought—and that would be the end of it.
But it never came.
The Eglan ship matched velocity less than a hundred yards away—and a dazed communications officer reported—"Sir—they've opened a channel—they want to surrender!"
Fiske looked at Pedersen.
Pedersen looked at Fiske.
The blank incomprehension on the face of one was precisely matched in the face of the other. This was incredible! The Eglan was still in fighting trim. The "Dauntless" was a wreck. Yet the aliens were offering to surrender—and they never surrendered!
"A trap?" Pedersen asked.