29 – It Gets Worse

Gorman's ears were ringing, his vision blurry. He didn't remember sitting down against a column. He felt like he was going to throw up and quickly reached for his helmet, twisting it off with a less-than-graceful pull. As his eyes cleared up, he looked around. The turian rifle was lying a few meters away, half-buried in kicked up dirt and bits of fountain. The ruins of that feature were still spilling water, and the tall plants loomed over the garden – even the one with a man stuck through it. There were two red suits of armor sprawled out on the ground. One he remembered shooting from the catwalk, the other was up against a column directly opposite. Unlike the Commander, his counterpart's neck was twisted in a way no neck should ever twist. They would not be getting up.

Gorman, however, was able to rise to a knee, and then to his feet. His senses, and memory, were returning. The concussive shot should not be used at close range, he noted for future reference.

Suddenly another memory arrived. He saw three bodies, but there were five when he started. A red suit of armor emerged from behind some piled, bloodstained debris. Last he checked, this pirate was tending to a wounded comrade, but as he stood upright, Gorman wondered why he hadn't fired at him like the rest.

He had no weapon. He didn't need one.

Across the synthetic garden was a mountain of a man. Red armor stained with dirt, towering a head and a half over the Commander. Thick arms were raised and tore off a helmet.

Scarred, tattooed, angry…but Gorman was mistaken – it was a woman.

Such a difference didn't matter here. She was in his way, and as she cracked her armored knuckles, he braced for a fight. Worse than that, he was going to have to fight on her terms…the Phaeston was just too far. The two squared off, wordless, for another moment. Gorman did his best to keep eye contact while scanning his surroundings for anything resembling an advantage. Her eyes were a dull grey. A tattoo on her neck could be made out, four letters. Probably UCLA.

Suddenly an alarm went off. Water rained from the ceiling. Gorman's discarded pistol had set off the smoke detector. His opponent glanced up. He wouldn't get a better chance.

The Commander leaned back, then thrust himself forward into a run. He gathered as much momentum as he could, then took the leap of faith. He sprang up, legs forward, and hoped that all his weight and might would culminate in a running dropkick for the history books.

Before he could collide with her chestplate, the unthinkable happened. She caught on, grabbing his legs mid-flight and redirecting him over her shoulder. Gorman found himself flung, flying up, clattering against the ceiling, then the upper wall, then the walkway.

The plan was a bust. All he could think was that he should have instead favored the vintage SWAT team 1-2-3 move. Failure hurt, but he was still holding on to life. The walkway…not so much. As it collapsed, he slid and slipped across and off, tumbling onto the dirt once more.

He rushed to his feet, only to duck – the fearsome pirate had thrown a large piece of fountain at him. It battered the back wall, next to a door. Gorman turned his head and caught a glimpse of her expression. There was a hint of a smile. She was toying with him…and might even have missed on purpose.

The water pelted down from the sprinkler, hitting their suits of armor with a loud thrumming noise.

He went in for round two. With two strides forward, he dug a boot into the dirt – now closer to mud – and kicked it skyward. The pirate recoiled back, shielding her eyes.

With the face guarded, his avenue of attack was restricted – and he made the split-second decision to target her support. Using the slippery ground, he broke into another sprint and dove in for a crunching slide tackle. Soggy dirt was flung up in his wake.

Success was short-lived. Only one of her legs buckled under the contact, but this just allowed her to reach down and pick the Commander up by the arm with a free hand. He felt himself being unceremoniously dragged in front of her like she was picking up a doll. As if it were any consolation, he could now make out that the letters tattooed on her neck weren't 'UCLA' as thought, but 'CCCP'. His fate was sealed the second he saw the other arm being wound up.

A resounding left jab sent him spiraling across the garden. He hit the back wall with a brutal, loud impact. He was right where he started from, but with fewer intact ribs. He could feel an oozing gel at his core.

Gorman knew a losing fight when he saw one. The woman was approaching. It looked like his number was up. One last stroke of fortune, however, was that the piece of rubble the pirate had thrown included the wet, muddy Phaeston. He picked it up, scrambled to his feet and held his forearm against the door at the wall. An orange glow worked its magic, and the circle parted. He bolted out, and didn't look back.

It was dry and clean in this corridor – a quaint reminder of how the garden looked before it became a warzone. He didn't care where it led, anywhere was preferable.

The sprint stopped for no pain in his chest, nor for a red figure that happened to be making his way in the other direction. Gorman checked the side of his weapon. The light was bright. He fired a concussive shot.

This particular pirate never stood a chance. Blasted to the floor, he barely had time to get up before the Commander pummeled him with Phaeston bullets. The foe crumpled up on the ground. One less enemy to worry about. All the while, thumping bootsteps were coming from behind. She'd find Gorman eventually – his hair was dripping water and boots tracking mud all throughout the tidy, shiny panels – so he had to keep moving.

At the end of the hall was somewhere his outdated mind would recognize as a server room. Tall, blinking contraptions dotted in series, connected together by physical cables. Wasn't everything supposed to be wireless in the future? There was also something much more interesting at present: a stairwell down. Gorman descended without delay.

As he did so, the sound of gunfire from beyond became noticeable. It intensified with each step. He put two fingers up to his ear – realizing in the moment that he had left the helmet back up at the garden.

"Alpha, Bravo, what's your status?" he called out, hoping somebody was listening.

"Bravo here," came the voice of Petronis. The sound of rifles in action in the background of her broadcast was starting to align with what Gorman was approaching, give or take a millisecond. "We've linked up with Alpha. Bridge of the ship, front and central."

"Good," Gorman said between quick breaths. At least something was going right. "Any sign of the science team?"

"Negative Commander, no live ones," Petronis paused to fire a burst of high-speed rounds. "But it gets worse. There's a bomb on the ship. A big one."

"You're shitting me," Gorman swore.

"What?" the turian misunderstood, "Look, whatever your pilot did out there, it took out these pirates' only way home. If they can't leave, they're making sure nobody will. We've got less than thirty human minutes to find it."

"But what about the…" Gorman tried to make sense of the rapidly changing situation. Why bother taking hostages at all if the ship and crew were expendable? Was half an hour enough time to get his crew out safe, never mind the scientists? Gorman made a call. "Don't wait for me, Jocasta. I need you to Find. That. Bomb."

"On it, Commander. Bravo out."

Gorman emerged from the stairwell to a former scene of battle. If upstairs was a server room, this was a boardroom. Overturned tables, torn-apart chairs, flecks of shattered glass lying in pools of blood. Red suits of armor, with varying degrees of integrity, were sprawled out in what must have been defensive positions. The sound of current battle was coming from the right…but to the left was something he had yet to see. An asari scientist, slumped up against a desk.

Compared to the only other asari he knew, this woman was a deeper blue, almost indigo in color. A purple-stained lab-coat stretched down to her knees, and at her hand lay an angular handgun. Whoever they were, they fought back, and judging by the number of red suits around, fought well. He lowered to examine her lifeless body and hung his head. Time was not on his side, urgency winning the debate as to whether he should omni-tool scan the fallen scientist like he did with the pirate earlier. The moment of deliberation, however, had a benefit he wasn't expecting. He saw a blue shimmer out of the corner of his eye. He raised the Phaeston, but his finger was off the trigger.

"Anyone there?" he called out, alerting anyone – friend or foe – to his position. Who was to say that biotics weren't in the UCLA's ranks? "I'm Commander Gorman, with the Alliance," he added a hopefully reassuring half-truth.

A figure slowly emerged from an otherwise inline panel in the wall. Gorman lowered his rifle as soon as he saw the skin color.

"A-Alliance?" came a timid voice. Her eyes were bloodshot, and saw a disheveled, bruised human in dirty black armor holding a turian-made assault rifle two sizes too big for him. Alliance was a stretch, but he was no pirate from the respect she saw him give the late Dr. Oryla. "Come in. Quick." The panel slid further to the side, and the blue head retreated. Gorman checked his flanks and made for the opening.

He entered a place that could easily fit the description of 'panic room', both in terms of function and the state of everyone within it. Gorman couldn't believe his eyes. Nine blue women with flicked scalps were huddled in the narrow space, illuminated only by bare bulbs and orange omni-tool glows. They looked exhausted, and terrified – and then it dawned on them just who had entered. The Commander was bombarded with a thousand hushed questions.

"Who are you?" was said by about three asari at once.

"Are the pirates…gone?" asked another. A distant rumble served to answer her.

"Thank the Goddess!" an especially relieved asari made to jump into the Commander's arms, restrained by her colleagues before any damage could be done.

There was one that stood out, with air of superiority he was able to recognize. The weariest expression and the looks of the others gave it away.

"Tara?" he asked.

"You must be Gorman," the senior scientist nodded. "I wish we were meeting under better circumstances. Is Witta with you?"

The Commander had many questions of his own, but he knew that there was no worse time to stop and chat. He also had to be careful with his words – the last thing these jittery civilians needed to hear was that a bomb was less than thirty minutes from detonation.

"You'll meet her soon, I promise. Can everyone move?" he glanced over the gallery of frightened aliens.

"We can do more than that, Commander," Tara stated. On command, her body glowed a brilliant biotic blue. "Lead the way and we'll follow."

The Commander beckoned his new troupe to tail him back through the loose panel. One by one they folded out. Strength in numbers was his again.

Gorman managed a smile – a challenge given that a seven-foot tall amazon in heavy armor was still on his trail. He lost the smile, and a bit of color in his face, when realizing that his muddy boots led right to an inconspicuous panel in the wall.

Thud, thud, thud.

"What's that sound?" an asari spluttered.

"Back inside!" shouted Gorman, waving one arm behind him and uncoiling the Phaeston with the other.

From the stairwell burst a familiar giant.

Her massive frame even had the Commander's new friends stunned. At this range, a concussive shot was out of the question – so he opened fire. A swarm of bullets came flying out of the Phaeston, pinging and ricocheting around the walking tank's kinetic barrier. This last-ditch defense was faltering, and he was running out of wrestling moves to attempt.

The asari did not retreat. Instead, they snapped into action. All nine combined held their hands out, channeling dark energy towards their palms. The pirate's viciously smug expression was at last broken, replaced by a sudden fear. The red armor was encased in a thick, iridescent biotic field. The group raised their hands with force. The suit violently belted upwards, slamming the woman's head into the ceiling. Then the hands crashed down. The once-mighty warrior collapsed onto the floor with a tremendous clang. Red stains above and below were all Gorman needed to see, but part of him still expected her to rise again with nothing more than a headache. That did not happen.

She was defeated.

The battle, however, was not over yet.

"Gorman, come in!" rang his subdermal radio. The Commander snapped out of his triumphant daze and held a hand to his ear. It was Petronis, and she sounded abnormally hurried. Worryingly, there was a lack of gunfire, both in the radio background and to Gorman's actual ears in the call center.

"I'm here," he replied, "Found the scientists. What's the situation?"

"You found them? That's nice, but we could still really use you over here. No sign of the bomb, but the quarian and Kalu have taken hits – meaning we're down any means of defusal. Pirates are regrouping for one last push. We can't hold here, Commander!"

"Can you fall back to the docking hatch? The intact one?"

"Yes, but we need to move now."

"Jocasta? Get the hell out of there." With that decisive order, he flicked off the radio and turned towards his group of wide-eyed, shaky followers. Most were still staring at the bloody mess that was the fallen pirate juggernaut. He pointed at Tara. "Which way to the docking bay?"

It wasn't long before all of them were running down the halls of the Siren of Lusia's main deck…or what remained of it. The scenes of battle, presumably Bravo's exploits, were hurdled at breakneck pace. Even so, Gorman couldn't help but notice some of the science team trying to discreetly take along any important files, data sticks and tablets. Tara was smarter than all of them – she pried a rifle from a pirate's death grip. If they didn't know before that it was time to abandon ship, there was now no mistaking it. The Commander, after a couple prayer-filled attempts, got a shaky link back to the Shackleton's helmsman. The ship was enroute to the docking port.

Memories of Gorman's brief EVA flooded back, as did a certain relief, once the group arrived at the docking hall. The kiosks and lockers were in no better shape than the one on the other side of the Siren, but they were attached to the rest of the ship, and the doors being opened earlier by Bravo saved them invaluable seconds.

"You're not coming?" an asari asked. She and the others had made all the way into the decontamination chamber. The circular Alliance hatch lay in wait on the other side, and through it, safety. Gorman stood just outside the threshold, glancing back the way they came.

"I have to find my crew. Nobody's getting left behind."

"We left Dr. Miura behind!" cried another asari.

"She's dead, Nilly," grimly stated a colleague.

"I'm coming with you, Commander," Tara stepped over the hatch and back into the Siren. "We'll find your crew." The hatch closed, and Gorman could hear the laser inside do its work. Tara gave him a direct look, a serious expression, and a hushed tone. "How much time do we have?"

"Fifteen minutes, tops."

No more words were needed. The two of them sped off back through the docking lounge. The sound of gunfire picked up again – and the sound of footsteps from beyond.

The last atrium before safety was a large clearing, the 'research lab' as described by Bravo team what felt like a year ago. Broken monitors, fizzing holograms, sparking electronics and overturned desks. About five red suits of armor lay sprawled out across the chamber. Gorman and Tara took cover behind the desks, as good a defensive position as they were ever going to get, and waited for whoever was fast approaching. Shadows appeared along the next corridor down.

Zaz was the first through the corridor, on instinct raising her weapon but lowering it immediately once she realized who she had found.

"Oh, now you show up?" she yelled, leaping down from the corridor platform and into the lab. She raced up to the Commander's position. "We're killing humans, Gorman! Humans! Fighting the geth is one thing, but I never joined you to -"

"Zip it, Zaz," Gorman growled, pointing at her and then back towards the docking bay. "To the ship. That's an order."

Zaz huffed and departed down the way. Saal'Inor was the next to emerge from the front corridor, T'Lore right on her tail. There was a dark discoloring at the quarian's waist. She'd taken a nasty shot, and nothing medi-gel could completely fix in a pinch. Hopefully these asari scientists had a Doctor among them of the medical kind. Upon seeing the asari step down from the corridor, Tara rose from the cover.

"Witta!" she exclaimed, and started to run towards her. The two went into a deep embrace. Gorman raised a brow.

Petronis then barreled through and into the lab, turning face and lighting up some further targets with her own heavy rifle for good measure before acknowledging the Commander and company. She skirted the hugging asari and snapped into cover.

"Incoming!" she yelled.

The two asari broke apart, realized that something big was imminent, and darted back, falling behind a bulky upright machine of electrical pulses and holographic screens. More shadows came from the corridor.

At the first flash of red, the crew opened fire.

The first pirate barely got a few steps forward before his shields were ripped open. He was pelted, buckling back and down for good. The squad behind him were luckier, dodging and weaving into space. Gorman prepped his rifle, and hit them with a concussive round.

The enemy yelped, and the bang was loud enough to stun, but they were still in good cover. Bullets zipped in either direction, and shattering sounds were heard, but neither side seemed capable of breaking the other. Gorman fired until his gun ejected steam, at which point Petronis took over and lay waste to anything her rifle could see until it too needed time to cool off. The cycle was starting to repeat itself, only broken when T'Lore risked standing upright to pull off a biotic motion. One red suit was yanked from cover, allowing three streams of bullets to shred the body within. The biotic haze around them was starting to look a murky purple before they unceremoniously dropped on the floor, limp and lifeless. The victory was short-lived, as a pirate appeared from the corridor to instantly replace the fallen comrade. Gorman's crew's objective, to repel the last-ditch attack, was faltering. Sooner or later they would have to retreat to the ship, but they were pinned down, and the clock was ticking.

In the extraordinary commotion, the Commander found time to make a stark realization.

"Where's Kalu?" he shouted to the turian next to him.

"Took a bad hit as we cleared the bridge," Petronis found time to respond, "Had to leave him behind. Sorry, Commander."

Gorman could not believe his ears.

Outrageous, simply outrageous! What part of 'Not One More' did this good-for-nothing lousy militaristic excuse of a pigeon not understand? The Commander had already lost enough friends to sacrifices so that others may go on. As much as he wanted to give the mother of all dressing-downs, there was no time left for lashing out at subordinates. There was a job to do, so he had to do it.

"Give me some covering fire. I'm going in for him."

"Are you insane? He agreed to it, he knew he was only going to slow us down!"

"How much time is left?"

"Time? We're out! Commander, we need to leave! Now!"

"You wanted to see some human initiative?" Gorman asked. He gave her no time to answer. He hurdled over his cover and broke into a dash.

Petronis reluctantly heaved her rifle back into a firing position, and let fly a concussive shot of her own. It detonated by the corridor, luckily just before the Commander could reach it. The pirates dazed, he was able to duck through a wave of gunfire and his shield took the brunt of any bullets that made it on target. Only one pirate stood between him and the corridor – until he was whisked upwards by a shimmering biotic field. With a running leap, he rolled into the corridor. The path ahead looked clear. He got his feet into a rhythm and sprinted forward.

Forward, forward, forward.

Stepping over the slumbering giant and heading into ship sections unknown, he came upon a wide clearing. Seats in the dozens, bodies abound, and most noticeably of all a wall-wide window showing the field of stars beyond. This must be the bridge.

"Kalu!" he called out. His head and body twirled around in search of the crewmate, but also for something that could be safely called a bomb. No joy.

His senses switched from sight to sound.

There was an alarm – several, actually – coming from overworked instrumentation. Ship-wide diagrams were flashing most severely at the starboard docking port and a human-shaped hole above. Loud sparks flew from monitors and components that had taken a more direct impact from red trooper and rifle bullet. Gorman approached one particular, peculiar noise, the faint sound of strangely calm dialogue. From a central console, there was a constant transmission of someone trying and trying again to start a conversation. It was Tara's voice, and 'she' was attempting to contact the Shackleton. The Lieutenant was correct; this must have been a VI impersonator, just like with the Burnley incident.

A more pressing sound caught his attention. He could still hear gunfire, naturally, but there was something off. It was coming from behind…but also from the front. He picked up the pace again and followed the noise.

Red armor was spotted, and he dove for cover, but when he peeked around again, he saw that he was looking at their backs, not their gun-toting fronts. Every passing second was a second he couldn't afford to waste – so he booked it towards them.

With a crash, Gorman impacted the back of one red trooper, sending it tumbling over the railing. Without delay he fired every shot he could into the bewildered second one. The shields crashed out, and bullets tore through the plate. He looked over the railing, and pummeled that now-prone pirate until steam flew from the Phaeston.

He recognized the area. He'd once seen it through a sliver of a hatch – the docking bay blown to pieces during his entry to the ship. Right now, that way out was blocked by a barricade covered in hazard tape, next to a controlling lever. Finally, thought Gorman, the Siren of Lusia displays something resembling workplace safety. That wasn't his only thought. He frantically looked around for anyone or anything that was shooting back.

His shields caught a bullet, and he ducked before noticing who shot it. It was an asari, lab-coat and shapely helmet smothered in red and purple. Their trembling hands looked ready to drop the weapon with a stare, but the pistol was slightly lowered as she noticed his handiwork laying on the ground with blood coming from its torso. Gorman marched down a set of steps to greet her, and sure enough, behind her makeshift cover was a bloody human with dark skin, green armor and a sudden smile.

"Put the gun down, Miura," Kalu coughed out. "It's the Commander!"

Two mysteries solved – but any proper reunions would have to wait.

"We can't stay here," Gorman declared, "If we run, we should be able to…" he trailed off as he noticed the asari's expression change from relief to fear. She also redirected her gaze off and above him.

Gorman swung around. There, entering the chamber, was the giant pirate. Her head was bloodied and bruised, her armor chalked with debris and wet with mud, and her arms racking back for an unbelievable round three.

"Скучай по мне?" came from her mouth. A spark flew from her exposed neck, and presumably malfunctioning translator.

"Not you again…" Gorman's brow furrowed and ribs ached.

Then, he got an idea so desperate it had to work. He reached down to the only type of pirate he'd successfully bested, and turned their helmet around and off with a puff of gas. He managed to put it on his own head and click it into place by the time the bigger pirate crashed down onto the lower level with enough force to send everything momentarily into the air. Gorman looked to the asari and pointed to the lever.

She hesitated, then complied. The lever went up. Kalu flicked down his breather. Gorman did the same. An alarm sounded.

The approaching behemoth looked at Gorman, then the asari, then the lever. Her eyes widened.

"О, нет," she exhaled.

The barricade parted in one sudden motion. Screaming wind and flying objects filled the room, all exiting the new hole with remarkable speed. All that could be seen outside were bits of former hallway and the vast night. Loose railings, and finally, people were now at the vacuum's mercy. The dead reds were sucked out first. It was then when Gorman became aware of his mistake. He forgot to turn his magnetic boots on. A split-second choice was made. With one hand he grabbed the asari's arm, with the other he held onto Kalu's armor. The three of them were picked up and spat out.

Sound gave up, and the Commander found himself floating again, holding onto friends new and old for dear life. Slowly, his view of the Siren of Lusia grew larger and larger. Against all odds, the ultimate pirate was nowhere with them. She was probably using all her strength to clamber to pressurized safety.

Not that it mattered.

There was not even the faintest noise when the Siren of Lusia exploded.