28 – Siren of Lusia

When Gorman gave the order to prepare for boarding, he envisioned nothing but a neat and orderly process. Everyone donning their protective gear, everyone grabbing their preferred weapon – ensuring it was in adequate condition, of course – and everyone lining up single-file for a classic team briefing where the Commander would outline the quintessential SWAT team three Ss: Situation, Stakes and Strategy.

In reality, what happened was farther away from that ideal than considered possible. Whereas the three Ss were enough to get Gorman through some tough missions, the cargo bay could be described with an unprecedented fourth S – Scramble.

Miscommunication was immediately rife – no thanks to the uncertainty of who exactly they were going to find once they got aboard the science vessel. For a moment, Saal'Inor was arming herself to her hypothetical teeth with the impression that the Shackleton was being boarded and not the other way round.

Petronis cracked open her special reserve and breaths of awe were released. The problem of limited firearms the crew had previously dealt with was at once sorted. Rifles, pistols, grenades, all high-grade and allegedly the best the Hierarchy had to offer. Kalu and Zaz were tussling over a seriously powerful handgun. Bodewell took two of everything.

Gorman was livid.

There were lives on the line, and here his so-called crew were behaving like rowdy schoolchildren, joking and fighting over who gets to have what toy. With some effort, he hoisted himself onto the roof of the Bluntnose, put two fingers in his mouth and let loose a mighty whistle. Heads were raised.

"Hey!" he shouted, making sure everyone was paying him attention. He pointed down and across. "Form a line!"

The crew grumbled and shuffled into position. Gorman glanced over the crowd. Three aliens and three humans. Two men and four women, one head and shoulders above the rest. He cleared his throat.

"Listen up," the pointing finger was raised, but before he could properly begin it had to be lowered to single some crewmates out. "Zaz, drop the gun." There was a thud on the metal floor. "Bodewell, stop staring at T'Lore," The crewmate next to the blue one began to turn red. "Saal'Inor, wipe that look off your face."

"Sorry," the quarian mumbled.

"Look at all of you," the Commander said, disdain clearer than crystal, "We're about to board a ship, facing an unknown enemy of unknown strength, and you all think you're ready. I don't care what fancy gun you're carrying, you're not ready. You're never ready for something like this."

Solemn nods came his way in response, but the point wasn't being made effectively enough for his liking. His old crew back in '13 were, despite their quirks, the best of the best when it came time to be effective, not to mention professional. He could assume no such qualities among this motley bunch.

"Ever breached and cleared a room?" Gorman rhetorically asked, harking back to his SWAT door-kicking days. "Cause all there's gotta be is one hostage, and that's intense. On that ship, Lieutenant Blanc tells me there could be as many as thirty."

Some crewmates gulped.

"The Lieutenant says there are two entrance airlocks, so we're going to split into two fireteams. Gives us the best chance at finding the scientists, and fast. Petronis, you'll lead Saal'Inor and Zaz. T'Lore and Kalu, you're with me."

There wasn't much that dictated the Commander's crewmate allocation, except that after hearing about the turian's thorough military background, it was a no-brainer to give her a subcommand.

"What about me?" Bodewell latched onto the glaringly obvious fact that he'd been left out.

"Stay on the ship with the Lieutenant. He'll find a way to make you useful."

The great DB was silenced.

"With that sorted," Gorman concluded, "We'll get aboard fast, see who we're up against, and save anyone that needs our help. I didn't wait two hundred years to be let down, so get it together, get your armor on, and remember to check your damn fire. Move it!"

The Scramble was resumed, but with a new pace and sense of restraint. 'Organized chaos' would perhaps be the most fitting term.

The Commander's Onyx armor uncoiled and slid on with a series of clicks, the jet black helmet twisting on with minimal fuss. He was about to go up and grab the M16 when the other fireteam leader presented him with a turian assault rifle, the Armax Arsenal 'Phaeston'. It was obviously designed for that particular species – about one and a half the length of his own faithful rifle – and had ridges above and below the barrel that looked sharp enough to cut. Rate of fire adjustable, from full automatic to even fuller automatic. The stock of the rifle was carved in and out, possibly to accommodate the shapes of the turian's armor. It also had other…special features that would have to be seen to be believed. Whatever the case, it was a favorite of hers – and a sincere recommendation. It felt heavy in his hands, but also much appreciated. It snapped to his back and arranged itself into a compact form. He was as ready as he could be.

On the bridge, Gorman observed how the Shackleton bowed and veered around the Siren of Lusia like a wasp looking for the right place to sting. A circular opening at one of the thin side spires was approached and the ship aligned parallel towards.

Petronis, Saal'Inor and Zaz stood before the Shackleton's hatch, shaking away any last jitters. Two helmet breathers were lowered. Blanc gave a thumbs up, and the port opened with a burst of wispy steam. The fireteam hurdled through the hatch, and after exchanging one last look back at their Commander, it closed behind them. It was now up to the trio to open the science ship's second hatch from the outside – something Saal'Inor claimed was 'trivial' with her technical expertise. Gorman was hoping she was right, and that it could be replicated for the next phase of the plan.

The Shackleton broke off and began a drift around the larger vessel. The view through its central ring was a brilliant haze, the dancing blue energy even more vivid up close. One rotation later, and the next team stood to face their fate. Gorman looked left, and saw Kalu making sure his breather was down. He looked right, and saw T'Lore's hands clasped under her helmeted chin. In prayer, perhaps?

"And…we're docked," announced the helmsman. The hatch gingerly swung open. "Good luck in there."

"Thanks, Lieutenant," Gorman nodded, flicking down his breather. "Let's move," he told the team.

One leg at a time, he clambered across the threshold. The weight of the Phaeston on his back, no matter how condensed, was doing its best to disrupt his footing. The decontamination process began in earnest, and a laser sliced through the antechamber. The hatch opposite was not of the same design. It was circular alright, but with strangely ornate spirals and grooves that set it apart from the Alliance substance-over-style approach he'd gotten used to.

The first barrier to entry unsealed itself without any hassle. This safety feature present on every species' ship, only adjustable manually on location, was something they were counting on to not depend on the Shackleton's extendable docking port for a consistent connection. Should the worst happen and a pirate ship attack, there were few worse places for the Shackleton to be than stuck inside the Siren. Inside the hatch was a narrow hall with a low ceiling and a similar entryway at its end. The lights were dim yet the walls were still shining, silvery in color.

Kalu snapped into action, kneeling by the door and producing an omni-tool from his company green gauntlet. Saal'Inor had given him a crash course on cracking through the encryption system of electronic doors, something quarians are apparently taught by their shipborne government to help them on their Pilgrimages.

Gorman's helmet headset crackled to life.

"Bravo team reporting," came the voice of Petronis.

"Reading you five by five," Gorman gave the proper response, then remembered he was talking to a different species. "That means I hear you, Bravo," he added.

"We're through the second door," Petronis reported. That was quick, thought Gorman. "No contacts, but this place is a mess…and a big one."

"Copy that," Gorman acknowledged, taking a step back to not have Kalu swearing over his omni-tool coming through his microphone.

"…We've got blood, Commander."

Gorman bit his tongue.

"What color?"

"Looks purple to me," Petronis claimed, but then muffled disagreement could be heard. "What do you mean, 'red'? It's completely purple, look at it!" Petronis retorted to them.

"Focus, Bravo," Gorman sighed, "Keep me updated. Alpha out." The Commander turned back to the door. It was open. Kalu tried to wipe his brow, only clacking his knuckles against his faceplate. "Good work," Gorman said, giving the security guard-turned-security breach a pat on the back and taking point.

Petronis wasn't kidding – this place had seen better days. The silver walls were caked in areas with the aftermath of future small arms fire, burns in horizontal arcs indicated that someone was shooting a moving target. Gorman was reminded of the docking 'lounge' that he first entered during his brief stay at Tara IV, there were lockers and little kiosks for those braving a trip the way they came. However, the contents of any storage were spilled all over the ground. Smashed tablets, broken glass canisters, even cracked asari helmets – which, just like the white one T'Lore was currently wearing, distinctly had more accommodating room at the back of the head. The walls gave way to floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the hall further ahead, and another doorway was dead ahead.

Gorman tried to lead the squad into a brisk advance forward, but had to stop short of the last kiosk before the windows. There was a shimmering, sticky substance dripping from its desk. Blood. To Gorman, definitely purple. Dread set in as he realized some of the sheen on the metal floor was more purple blood smeared in a motion down the rest of the hallway. The trail went beyond the next door.

"Purple," noticed Kalu. "Asari?"

"Yes," T'Lore grimly confirmed. "We must keep moving."

The third doorway, unfortunately, was also locked tight. Kalu got to work, given that little bit of adrenaline-powered haste now that the seriousness of the mission was starting to set in. T'Lore supervised him, and Gorman got another call. He ambled to the windows, staring out at the stars.

"Bravo here," Petronis' voice was patched through, "We've found bodies."

"Roger, Bravo. How many?" Gorman held his breath.

"Two. Asari. Scientists, by the looks of it. Nametags read Skuggi and Ilori."

Gorman let the breath go.

"Any signs of struggle?"

"Multiple gunshot wounds. This was no execution. Still no sign of those responsible."

Another sound broke through the radio, something that Gorman had feared. It sounded like someone was crying. Whatever scene they had found, it was bad.

"Stay sharp, Bravo. You know that expression?"

"Sharp as a blade, Commander. Will do. Bravo out."

The Commander gave another look to the beauty of the cosmos, and then turned around with the expectation that Kalu was done again. Instead he was still knee-deep in his omni-tool, so much so that the asari was over his shoulder trying to help out.

"Just heard from the others…" Gorman started, but trailed off once he noticed something about the third door. There were fixtures on either side of it that looked decidedly out of place – blocky and sturdy amidst the free-flowing and graceful. His brain made a perfectly reasonable connection and he recognized the placement. "Good thinking," he restarted, "Use the demolition charges. Save us time."

Kalu and T'Lore's helmets quickly flicked to face him. Only their eyes were visible, but the expression was undeniable. The door cracked open ever so slightly.

"Goddammit," Gorman exhaled.

The time to react was up – but he tried anyway.

"Get down!" he yelled.

Already at a kneel, Kalu and T'Lore hit the deck as the charges clicked. Gorman was in mid-air.

BOOM!

Firstly, no matter how improvised, this was a gross misuse of demolition charges: Defensive, as opposed to offensive. It would have made much more sense for a defender to have reinforced the door rather than weaken it for an attacking force. Secondly, the charge's yield was strong but not sufficient to kill the Commander at that distance. Unlike a grenade, charges typically discharge minimal shrapnel, and Gorman was too far away to have felt any shockwave capable of significant harm.

What the demolition charge did do, however, was completely destroy the top half of the door and violently sever the hallway from the rest of the ship.

In an instant, the ground Gorman was due to land on swung away from him. Shattering glass and loose debris bounced around. The ceiling of the hall hit him on the back. Both sound and gravity disappeared.

Gorman's reaction time was stellar, but not enough to grab onto anything nailed down. Somewhere above him, the hallway broke off from the ship entirely with an inaudible snap.

He was adrift.

Falling, falling, falling. The scariest thing about falling in space is that you may never land.

Once the initial shock wore off, he took inventory. Both his mind and body were spinning, and all he could hear were his own panicked breaths. Every second felt like an hour. He had to think of anything to calm himself down. This was just like that new space movie that just came out, with Sandra Bullock and George Clooney. He certainly didn't feel like a movie star – rather an action figure tossed into a tumble-dryer. Luckily, someone else phoned in to help.

"Commander, come in! Gorman!" It was Blanc.

"I think he's gone, man," chimed in another voice through the radio. It was Bodewell.

"I'm still here," Gorman groaned between breaths. "Heard from Kalu and T'Lore?"

"Phew!" the Lieutenant's relief was palpable…but starting to break up. "There was an explosion…docking bay…Kabiru and the asari…happening?"

"…Didn't catch that, Lieutenant. Say again?"

If interference was going to be a problem, the two men aboard favored a brute-force solution. As Gorman spun about aimlessly, trying to claw at anything resembling a solid structure, he caught out of the corner of his eye a black and blue ship swooping in fast and low.

"There you are!" Blanc exclaimed. He'd turned on a massive, blindingly bright headlight Gorman didn't know the Shackleton had. "How'd you manage that? Has to be pretty scary, floating around."

"Not the time, Lieutenant," Gorman spun some more, "Can you…get me out of here?"

Radio silence. What was the Lieutenant up to? Sweat was starting to hover between the Commander's skin and armor. He wondered how much oxygen was in the Onyx suit.

"There they are!" Blanc exclaimed again.

"What? Talk to me, Lieutenant!" Gorman ordered.

"The pirate ship, Commander! Pathetic little thing, was using the asari ship's energy field to hide itself, moving when we moved, circling when we circled. No life signs aboard – it's using an automated flight algorithm."

"Okay, I get it," Gorman hurried him up, "But can you help me first?"

"Interference has its computer systems scrambled. I've got a shot, but I have to move in now, Commander, before they try to escape with any hostages. Then we'd really be in trouble."

That was as good as a 'no', it seemed.

"…Fine, go take it down. But come back for me immediately."

"Just use your boots, Commander," Blanc laughed. "Wish me luck!"

With that, the Shackleton dove away. Gorman was alone again. Interference blocked him from getting a second opinion from Bravo team, or any Alpha survivors for that matter.

The Onyx boots were the key. He tapped his ankles together. Nothing. Then, he curled up to get a better look. Something resembling a switch was built into the side of his left shin. He gave it a flick and a ring of red light appeared around each boot.

Immediately there was the strange sensation of being dragged by the heels. With an almighty thud his boots collided with what used to be a kiosk. Tiny purple specks were still floating in its vicinity. He was upright and still at last. The light around the boots turned green. While his dizziness was wearing off, he took a look around.

Shadows cast from debris obscured much, but the brilliant white color of the massive asari ship couldn't be missed. It wasn't accelerating away from him, thankfully, but he was at a glance still a long way from where he started. It was time to get as close as he could. With a deep breath, he waited for the right moment, switched the boots off, bent his knees and let himself loose.

Swimming through the emptiness of space was at once both a childhood dream and a modern nightmare come true. The novelty wore off soon, he was quickly running out of hallway and flicked on the boots again. With another thump he latched onto the nearest floor, a half-broken piece that was once right next to the third door. He didn't know how careful he should be with the magnets under his soles – for all he knew it could have targeted anything from the gun at his back to the core of a nearby planet. The rotation of his platform gave him a window for his last maneuver – back to the docking hatch. There was no time to waste, so he turned the magnets off and propelled himself up and away.

There was no better demonstration than this for why Gorman was who he was back in the day. When faced with odds beyond reason, he never complained. Sure, he was scared as hell, but he had a job to do and people depending on him – so he did it. In a similar situation, most others would falter…but not him. The glaring question was whether "the Commander" was born, or made. Was it his rigorous training that gave him the edge, or was he just built that way? Gorman never stopped to think about it; he was usually too busy saving the world.

In pristine silence, a black suit of armor flew towards the Siren of Lusia. His view was dominated by the ship in front of him, but off to the side, something caught his attention – another explosion. The Shackleton's main gun managed to shoot a volley that absolutely shredded a smaller craft in the distance. Whatever type of ship it once was, the pirate vessel was reduced to spiraling cinders and flakes of metal.

A direct hit. Mesmerizing.

Too mesmerizing. Gorman raised his hands just in time to avoid slamming headfirst into the Siren. As he started to bounce away from the new Commander-sized dent in its fuselage, he scrambled to find and flick the magnet switch at his shin. The boots lit up red again, and before he realized that he had overshot the third hatch by a fair margin, he found himself plummeting into the ship.

With a tremendous crash, Gorman hit where he'd made the dent – and went all the way through. The outer layer gave way, and he careened feet-first through sheets of metal, electronic fiber and gale-force puffs of fleeing oxygen. It was like re-entering an atmosphere.

Gorman landed not with a thud but with a crunch.

When he looked straight, he saw the interior of a canteen of some description. Anything not bolted down – utensils, chairs, plates – was flying up and out of the new window. Sound returned, but the amount of noise in the room was immense. There were also two figures amidst the chaos, humanoid in shape and frantically trying to both stay grounded and put on red helmets to match their red armor. Gorman looked down. His boots were embedded in the back of a third one. Blood seeped through onto the floor, being dragged skyward as gravity diminished. Its color matched the armor. Humans.

As the Commander tried to dislodge himself from the man's spine, the two fumbling others were almost combat ready. The time for negotiation was over as soon as demolition charges were improperly used. He had to strike first. One hand uncoiled the Phaeston, and the other nabbed a Lancer rifle from the prone man's back. Without hesitation he opened fire.

Red-hot superfast bullets screamed through the canteen. As air and gravity continued escaping they only got faster, and the initially outrageous recoil became more and more controllable.

The smarter human made a run for it. His partner was too slow. A muffled smashing sound and a blue haze overloading told Gorman that he'd broken the man's shields. Bullets from two rifles hit him square in the back and side. The man went limp, body and blood floating. The door to the rest of the ship closed shut.

Pursuit would have to wait a moment. Gorman had to catch his breath.

He let go of the rifles – leaving them levitating in the vacuum – and swung out his forearm. The omni-tool booted up, and he navigated to the one thing he hadn't had time to play with yet: the general purpose scanner. A thin orange laser cut through anything in front of him, wavering up and down. He held his arm before the red suit on the ground, and watched as the results came in on his holographic screen. Something the quarian's scanner could never accomplish was achieved. The tool found a match within the Alliance military database.

James Lok Ng, age 25, born on Gagarin Station June 23, 2168. Impressive from a back-facing scan through thick plate armor, but it didn't end there. Served with the Alliance for two years in the Colonies before going AWOL, allegedly winding up with an organization called the called the UCLA. Gorman knew better than to assume it was a Californian college. The data ended there.

Gorman rose from the late pirate. He had found out who was attacking the Siren of Lusia, but was no closer to figuring out why...nor why now. Before he could advance out the door and hopefully back to somewhere pressurized, he had to try and contact the rest of the team. Two fingers went up to his helmet's side.

"Gorman to Kalu. Come in, Kalu."

"Gorman?" Damn good to hear you," Kalu replied. He could feel the relief through the mic. "Are you back on the Shackleton?"

"No, found my own way into the Siren. Not sure where. What's your status?"

"Explosion rattled us, but we're alright," Kalu explained, "You have T'Lore's biotics to thank for that. Been trying to contact you but there was some sort of interference? I didn't want to move out until we knew you were okay."

"You should have kept moving," Gorman was equal parts appreciative and agitated. "I've engaged the enemy. We're dealing with pirates. Red armor. Likely members of something called the UCLA."

There was no response.

"Kalu?"

Static.

Gorman sighed, and tried to contact the other group.

"Bravo, report."

"About time!" roared the voice of Petronis. There was an overwhelming sound of gunfire in the background that caused Gorman to instinctively reach for the Phaeston. "We're under fire, Commander! Five…make that four hostiles! Red armor! Human!"

"What's your position?" Gorman asked, as if he had any clue which way to go and find them.

"Some sort of research lab?" Petronis guessed, between bursts of fire. There was a yelp in the distance and the shattering of glass. "Only one way forward, so we'll push through and meet you in the middle."

"Gorman!" a voice interjected. It was Zaz. "I didn't sign up to fight humans! You better get here quick!"

That was one problem the Commander chose not to even acknowledge.

"I'm on my way," he confidently claimed, "Alpha out."

He put the Phaeston on his back and lumbered over to the doorway. The last red suit to leave didn't do enough to prevent a small gap in the round hatch, so Gorman cracked his knuckles and got to work pulling. With a heave presumably enhanced by the Onyx frame, he carved a big enough entry hole that he thrust himself through it. It slammed shut behind him.

Gravity returned in force. He was standing on a metal walkway with a thin railing overlooking what he would describe as a miniature park. Benches, water features, strange-looking tall plants that had an ethereal blue shimmer to them. From discrete speakers sounds of unnatural nature could be heard, animal calls from nothing that ever lived on Earth. He was confronted with the asari idea of a relaxing garden space. Working on a science ship like this must be either stressful or long. It didn't matter at present – there were armed figures in bright red armor in hurried motion around it. The Commander spotted the runaway, distinct by a layer of dust from Gorman's dramatic entrance, in panicked conversation with a superior. Heads, all human, all helmeted yet lacking breathers, turned towards the upper catwalk and the black armor that emerged from it. A variety of weapons were drawn.

Gorman tried to do two things at once. He made a mad dash for a wall on the upper level for cover, and he produced the Phaeston from his back.

Gunshots were heard from below, and his own kinetic barrier warped and distorted from the incoming bullets. If it wasn't for this shield, he would have been dead there on the spot. Instead, he remembered the 'special feature' Petronis had told him about – a special button to be pressed on the Phaeston's underbarrel at the same time as a shot.

He swung out from the wall, picking out three red helmets taking cover by a bubbling fountain. He pressed the button and pulled the trigger.

An especially large projectile cannoned out of the Phaeston, powerful enough to shift Gorman's footing back a step. It fired slower than a regular bullet – that is, slow enough that he could see it move in the air – and detonated when it reached the fountain.

BANG! The 'concussive shot' lived up to its name. The fountain crumbled, and three red ragdolls were flung outward from the blast. His enemy was disoriented, and he was immediately in a position to shoot them some more. Gorman was impressed. An indicating light on the rifle's side dimmed. He released the special button and held down on the trigger some more.

Two crashes – two shields down. One red trooper did not rise from the artificial dirt, the other retreated with that same color seeping from holes in his leg. A third crash, this time one that felt especially close. It was Gorman's shield. He swerved away from the line of fire, and after a brief inspection noticed that he hadn't been hit. Already an improvement on Mavigon.

While waiting for the barriers to recharge he was a sitting duck. Perhaps it was no different than taking time to reload back in the old days, but his heart knew no distinction as it pounded away.

The enemy were intent on reminding him of just how fragile he now was. Bullets whizzed by the wall, some coming dangerously close. Gorman just had to hold on a little longer.

Over the cacophony of battle a humming sound was heard. A faint blue field engulfed him. He held his breath, remembered his training, and peeked around the corner. Five red blurs: two shooting at him, one definitely dead, one cowering and one at their side cajoling. One red suit had clambered up to an upper catwalk around the other corner, and was carrying a handgun. He got an idea and got to work.

It started with a roll out to his side. The railing provided only thigh-high protection at best, but he minimized his frame and ducked across to the other end, opposite the door he came from. Bullets zipped by from two crossed lines of fire. A remarkable pinging noise indicated that some were actually hitting each other midflight.

Then he charged, breaking from cover and running at full sprint towards the handgun-toting pirate on his level. There was nowhere to hide. Gorman crunched into the red man with his shoulder, producing a thunderous crack. He got the motion just right. As both of them fell onto the catwalk, the enemy – up close, an older man with wild eyes – was facing the lane of incoming fire. His shields crashed out first, but not before the floor itself buckled under the weight of the combined impact…and gave way. The asari plant underneath held firm, catching the pirate in the side with a slippery spike. To Gorman's surprise, it impaled the guy, causing a sickening reddish ooze to burst from a hole through his waist. The Commander was luckier, rolling away and landing on the dirt next to the Phaeston…and the poor man's gun.

He grabbed that one first, rising to a knee and scurrying to cover while piling every bullet it had into the last shooters' shields. The gun gave up first, beeping with indignation and spraying a heap of steam that fogged up Gorman's visor. Forgetting the cooldown, Gorman tried to keep firing, and the steam turned to smoke.

Chucking it aside, he reclaimed the Phaeston and heard his shield break. He kept his head down now that the last firing opponent had the advantage. Clanging foosteps were heard, gathering momentum – now he was the one being charged.

Gorman leapt from cover, Phaeston at his hip.

A red suit of armor was bolting towards him.

He put one finger on the trigger and another under the barrel.