The smoking, pockmarked wreck drifted past the viewport, slowly rotating as residual explosions occasionally wracked its twisted frame. Malcolm coughed. The smoke that filled the bridge made it hard to see which side had finished the battle victorious. A small rescue shuttle came into his field of vision, and docked with his ship. Malcolm readied his sidearm. If the Directorate had won, he could expect no mercy. The door to the bridge opened, and a familiar figure stepped in through the smoke.
“Permission to board, Captain Weston?”
Malcolm chuckled quietly in relief. “Permission granted.”
“I wanted to tell you personally.” Commander North said. “Corvallis is chasing down the last of their ships as we speak. The Colonial Directorate is dead.”
Malcolm smiled. “Then long live the Syndicate.”
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