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Twenty-four ‘empty’ shipping containers all opened at once in the hold of the Silverfish, and from within their shadowed depths over a hundred snarling warriors spilled forth like maggots from a rotting corpse. With meticulousness that bordered upon the preternatural, groups of men and women in full battle rattle formed into neat squads and aligned themselves in careful formation around the airlock doors. They moved with wordless haste, no orders given and none needed as each piece of the greater machine found and executed it’s given task.
They had only seconds to make this work. Somewhere on the Kalashnikov, sensors would be lighting up with all the various biological, mechanical, and cybernetic signatures that would have appeared as if by magic on the ‘unoccupied’ freighter, and until that airlock and gangplank were secured, there was nothing to stop the pirates from blowing the hatches, pulling away, and blasting the Silverfish and its clandestine cargo into dust.
A team of combat engineers hit the airlock first, and within a few seconds they had permanently secured the docking clamps and disabled the explosive bolts, effectively fusing the two ships together at the gangplank. The two vessels were stuck now, connected to each other by docking grapples and a short, pressurized tunnel sealed at either end by airlocks. Once safely affixed so it could not be detached, the engineers blew the hatch between themselves and the Kalashnikov off its tracks with a few deftly placed shaped charges.
With the sort of choreographed precision that only endless repetition could create, the engineers fell back and to the sides to clear a path allowing the first armature through the freshly made gap.
An industrial class medium armature refitted for military use filled the width of the airlock with very little room left over. Ten feet tall when it stood upright, and just under 5,000 pounds with a full loadout, the ‘mech’s only job was to clear the decks of defenders and hold the beach head while the balance of the boarding party swept in to secure the rest of the ship.
Hunched over as far as her chassis would allow, Bernadette “Big Bernie” Rothschilde inched through the gap and sent the last hatch between herself and the reception deck of the pirate vessel tearing inward with a thrust of her forelimbs and a hail of gunfire.
As sporadic return fire began to pepper the big machine, it moved briskly forward on giant feet and answered the insult with the unrivalled roar of four swivel-mounted auto cannons and the amplified cackling of Bernadette, who may or may not have been enjoying herself in a manner not entirely healthy. Flame, smoke, and a torrent of steel-shredding projectiles pushed defenders back like straw before a tornado as the metal monstrosity methodically forced its way into the reception deck of the pirate vessel. Lightly armed pirates abandoned the compartment and fell back to the cover of adjacent hallways, completely overwhelmed by the speed and tactics of the fighting force that had just burst from the otherwise quiet airlock.
In less than twenty seconds, Pike’s Privateers had secured the airlock and reception deck without a single casualty. The elite group was well into establishing a defensive bulwark around the ground they had gained less than a minute later. Fire-teams broke off to push defenders even further into the corridors, and light armatures toting auto cannons moved into strategic locations wherein they could sweep entire lanes of enemies into chunky pink mist with the powerful weapons.
Roland, who was far more accustomed to being the first man through the door than the last, brought up the rear of the column. As he and the two women swept through the airlock and into the perimeter held by the mercenaries, he had to admit that the team had done a near-flawless job of executing the boarding. He trotted up behind the medium armature and rapped the machine on a steel flank, “Nice work, Bernadette,” he congratulated the soldier, “smooth as glass.”
The cockpit swivelled over to look at Roland, and he saw the pilot. Only her head and neck were visible inside the bubble of thick armored polymer, but her eyes were bright. The handsome dark-skinned woman inside smiled and brought one hydraulic forelimb to the bubble in her best approximation of a salute, the tip of one platter-sized two-fingered clamp just tapping the glass.
“I live for this shit, sir!” she boomed through speakers. Roland had to concede that this was probably an accurate statement. Bernadette had lost much of her body while building an orbital refuelling platform, but living in the ten-foot converted construction ‘bot seemed to have been the best thing that had ever happened to the bloodthirsty action junkie. It was a wide-footed chassis with a low center of gravity and an enormous power plant. The two lifting arms were originally designed to handle construction-scale material handling, so it was far stronger than most medium-weight frames. Attaching heavy armor and weapons hard-points to the big machine had been a deliciously simple matter for the master armorers of the Privateers. The result was a mobile weapons platform that could give purpose-built military models a run for their money.
“Don’t call me ‘sir,’” he saluted back, “I’m a corporal, so I’m pretty sure you outrank me. He shook his head ruefully, “Too bad you don’t fit through these corridors.” That kind of firepower would make his job much easier.
“C’est la vie, Corporal,” the woman seemed nonplussed, “I’ll hold the door for you so you can leave later. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Roper will come try his luck.”
Roland didn’t think that was likely. Roper was not so stupid as to brave a hundred guns in narrow corridors just to duke it out with a heavily armed two-and-a half-ton armature. He was tough, and he was certifiably insane, but he was not stupid. Still, he admired the woman’s fire, “You’re a woman after my own heart, Bernadette. Keep the door open and we’ll be back through in a minute or two.”
“Hey there!” Lucia called from behind him, “Don’t you start eyeballing other women on me, Corporal!” Her words were casual, but her face betrayed her stress. This was a new kind of fight for her and reigning in all the fears swirling around her mind was taking serious effort.
Bernadette laughed through the speakers, “Don’t worry, ma’am. That little runt has a long way to go before he is man enough for all this woman!”
Mindy jogged up, eyes twinkling, “But totally worth the climb, baby!”
Pike’s voice thundered over the comm channel, “Quit playing grab-ass and hit those objectives, assholes!”
Roland, who was no longer accustomed to taking orders, barked back, “Beachhead is green, command. Ready on your mark. Acknowledge?”
“Acknowledged,” Pike growled, “We will be ready in four-five seconds. How secure is the beachhead?”
“Big Bernie has reception, and all fire teams are in position. Biological tangos have been pushed out beyond visual, and HUD is free of technicals at this time. Don’t expect that to last much longer though,” Roland couldn’t resist aggravating the grizzled old commandant, “Waiting on you, command.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Pike did not sound as irritated as his words would indicate. The operation was off to a strong start and there would be plenty of time to be grouchy when something inevitably went wrong. “We had some trouble staying hidden. We are ready in three-five. Copy?”
“Three-five seconds, copy. On your mark, Command.”
“I’ll count it down,” Pike growled.
Roland hit his unit’s comm channel, “We are go in twenty seconds, crew! Call ‘em out!”
The various elements of the boarding party sounded off with military precision and enthusiasm.
“Sappers, green!”
“Alpha, green!”
“Bravo, green!”
“Charlie, green!”
“Beachhead, green!”
“Big Bernie, green as a mother fucker!”
Pike cut into the general chat, “Saddle up, kiddies! We are go on my mark! Four. Three. Two. One. MARK!”
One full second after the command was given, a squad of sappers set off the first of many large explosions designed to open floors and ceilings between decks. With easy access to vertical compartments as well as horizontal, the need to access lifts or stairwells was greatly reduced. The boarders could now move freely in all three dimensions without fear of getting slaughtered in choke points, widening the scope of the fight exponentially with just a few well-placed charges. It was a calculated strategy, as it communicated to the enemy that their goal was not to seize or capture the Kalashnikov intact.
Rupturing and collapsing decks and compartments willy-nilly greatly compromised the overall integrity of the entire vessel, and without knowing exactly what was above or below them any one of the blasts might cripple the ship permanently. The message was clear: Pike’s Privateers did not care how much, if any, of the ship and its crew remained intact after they were done.
Three platoons of professional mercenaries, each comprised of three, three-man fire teams burst outward from the reception deck in a thunderous roar of gunfire and pounding feet. Nimble men and women with speed and agility augmentations scurried upwards through still-smoking holes in the ceilings, while heavier, less sprightly teams went below.
All teams hurled grenades and set charges with very little restraint, and in seconds they had cut a swath of death and destruction two decks up and down, and pushed all resistance away from the aft quarter of the pirate ship. It was a loud, messy, and completely wanton orgy of destruction, and it was intentional.
“Wait for it!” Roland called to the teams as he ran through decks swept clear of defenders, “not yet!”
At last, his HUD came to life with the signature hum of Sasori blades. Dozens of them, hundreds even, humming and crackling as the metal assassins scuttled from their nests in the cargo hold toward the boarding party.
“Here they come!” He roared and unslung Durendal, “Stick to the plan! Pike! On my mark!”
The droids hit the first of the captured compartments fore of the reception deck in just a few seconds. The point team had no armatures, which is why they had moved so quickly, and they were forced to fall back immediately under the relentless clicking blades of the midnight blue robots.
“Hard contact! Point alpha!”
The voice called over staccato sounds of bead fire and heavier thumps of shotguns. Roland did not recognize the voice, but it sounded almost happy, “Engaging now! Get ‘em while they’re hot!”
Reports of contact started to filter in from all teams, and Roland signalled them to begin a controlled fall back to the reception deck, “All teams, pivot to your rally points now!” Ground that the raiders had seized in the fury of their initial push was ceded back to the androids as all teams simultaneously began a fighting retreat. It was a controlled withdrawal, designed to look like a convincing defense and to thin the numbers of androids as much as possible before the second phase of the operation began. The Privateers were more than happy to extract as much carnage from the opposition as possible while giving way, so the whole manoeuvre ended up looking very substantial.
In a blank corridor, two decks up from reception and six sections aft of the command deck, Roland, Mindy and Lucia encountered their first androids of the day. Somewhat surprised by the sudden appearance of opposition, the trio dispatched the four machines with a combined volley of gunfire that was greatly in excess of what would have been strictly necessary.
“Trigger discipline, team” Roland admonished, “Let’s keep it to one or two rounds per tango, please.”
“Sorry, boss,” Mindy snarled through her transparent rage.
Roland decided to ignore her and shouted into the general command channel instead, “All teams, shine blue when in position!” More Sasori skittered into the hallway, and Mindy brought two down with a single controlled burst while Lucia cycled the CZ’s trigger as fast as the mechanical limitations of the weapon would allow. Her surgically precise fire neatly drilled four more through their heads and chests with two flechettes apiece. They were fast, and the last one managed to reach their position and leap to the attack only to die when Roland’s fist sent it back down the hall in a clattering collection of wreckage.
“Gettin’ hairy, boss,” Mindy quipped and another burst from her rifle brought down an android that had slipped from the ceiling behind them, “Wanna call this?”
“Almost,” Roland whispered, “almost!” Durendal barked twice and fifty-caliber beads punched cantaloupe-sized holes through two more attackers. Lucia whirled like a ballerina around him, sending flechettes down the hall with uncanny accuracy, leaving smoking holes in any target she laid eyes on. But despite their combined fire, the hallway continued to fill with swirling blue-black bodies and humming, darting blades. Occasionally, an android would break through and Roland would have to handle it up close. As each second passed, he found himself shooting less and smashing more while the ladies continued to pour fire into the advancing wall of assassins. They were getting overwhelmed, and even though this was part of the overall plan, it wasn’t supposed to be their role in it.
Slowly, the little group began to edge backward, giving up their hard-fought ground begrudgingly while they waited for the rest of the teams to complete their manoeuvres.
“This is taking too long,” Mindy snarled over the sound of her rifle’s crackling projectiles. “We gotta fall back or we’re gonna get overrun!”
Lucia’s breathing was starting to speed up, betraying her mounting anxiety. Roland admired her iron-jawed resolve in the face of it, because she never stopped cycling her little pistol and never stopped dropping androids. Mindy was right, though. If the teams didn’t get dug in soon, they would have to yield their progress and regain this ground later.
Thankfully, the last green dot on his HUD turned blue, signalling that all teams were at their rally points. It was time to spring the trap.
“Pike!” he roared, “NOW!”
Outside the hull of the Kalashnikov, twenty life boats that had previously been fleeing toward Vespers Station on minuscule thrusters darted inward on concealed pulse engines and banged against the sides of the mighty pirate vessel. With admirable precision, the little boats tethered themselves to the hull of the enormous pirate ship with magnetic grapples. Each of the otherwise helpless life pods tied off to a maintenance hatch, airlock, or viewing pane like a swarm of opportunistic remoras latching onto a prize shark. The modified lifeboats held five Privateers each: four heavy infantry troopers and a single combat engineer. As the Sasori surged through the compartments and compressed the first boarding party back towards the reception deck, twenty sappers blew hatches, cut through access panels, or otherwise smashed their way through the unprotected areas of the thick-skinned pirate ship.
A hundred elite mercenaries inserted themselves in strategic locations across the ship, dropping into compartments behind the crawling mass of androids. This left the second team sandwiched between the androids and the pirate crew who had fallen back to let the Sasori handle the boarders. That was perfectly fine with these select troops. Led by Pike himself, the second team was the most experienced and skilled of the whole detachment. Most were heavily augmented and all were veterans of at least twenty-five special-operations actions. Collectively, they were simply referred to as “The Varsity Squad,” because Commandant Pike liked sports and hated stupid macho callsigns.
The plan was flexible. If the androids turned to address this new threat, Varsity would simply hunker in and run both opposing forces ragged while the first party would push through to the command deck. If the pirate crew left the Sasori to hold the first team and attempted to repel the new boarders themselves, they would find themselves in close-quarters combat with the finest small-unit fighting force ever assembled. Sergei’s crew was tough and ruthless. Almost five-hundred strong, they enjoyed both the home-field advantage and superior numbers. But Pike’s Privateers were better trained, better equipped, and far more committed to total victory. In the tight confines of the ship, the pirates would be facing heavily armed and armored commandoes with better guns and lifetimes of combat experience.
Pike was comfortable with this, and now the Kalashnikov was engulfed in a chaotic running gun battle that encompassed more than half the decks and a third of the compartments. Everyone knew that this was the point where the plan would become less a formalized series of calculated steps and more of a highly fluid free-for-all, but that was standard procedure for these types of actions.
The key was keeping Vladivostok so angry and confused that he did not notice Roland’s fire team doing their part. Commandant Pike knew exactly how to make that happen.
“Sappers to the fore!” he called into the command channel, a wicked grin twisting his lips.