The first of the Curveball's breaching pods had lit up like a firework under a sustained barrage of tungsten rounds, but the latter two made it past the expanding field of debris as autocannons depowered. The Aquilla's crippled reactor had finally given out as a sustained ion bombardment took its toll, though structurally the ship itself had sustained very minor damage. Meanwhile, the Curveball was attempting to limp to the dark side of the moon and escape jamming range. She had fought valiantly, but the alliance's patrons at Soterios Shipyards Corporation hadn't been messing around when they constructed the Aquilla; a bruiser any captain could be proud of. The approaching breaching pods attached themselves to the paralysed ship like mechanical ticks, and prepared to disgorge their cargoes. Within, highly disciplined marines trained on the harsh world of Ophelion Alpha prepared to lay down their lives for their captain, giving his ship enough time to escape and alert the council.
Varnak was informed of their contact by a youthful cadet with damp, red rimmed eyes. In the young lads defence, the Ophelian Marines were renowned this side of the sector for their brutal efficiency. He gave the order for trained personnel to secure the reactor and bridge, then for the blast doors at other critical locations to be sealed. Varnak cracked his knuckles. "Deploy the anti-personnel drones," he said. The Curveball might be nearing the edge of effective weapons range, and escape, but he had one final gambit up his neatly ironed sleeve.
Brecht gritted his teeth as he attempted to keep the Curveball on a discernible trajectory. They'd lost a couple of thrusters in the battle, and a third was misfiring. Techs were scurrying like ants on the outer hull, enacting emergency repairs even as they fled – but some of the damage was simply too severe without the facilities at a shipyard. Chief Officer Maverick suddenly looked up from her console with an expression of alarm. "Captain, the bridge doors have been sealed and O2 circulation disabled."
Slocknog's cocoon bulged as the slug squirmed in agitation. Hammersmith felt its disquiet in his mind. "There'sss sssomeone nearby with hossstile intentionsss, captain," he whispered, steeped in such sibilancy that Hammersmith's very mind felt moist.
He swore. In response, a small metal cylinder clattered across the deck and rolled to a stop at its centre. Hammersmith unbuckled himself just as it began to spew a thick gas, and almost immediately he felt it burn the back of his throat. Eyes stinging, he turned and attempted to drag his stiffening body across the bridge to where the masks were stowed. Amidst the sounds of choking and confusion, his arms were suddenly clutched by Maverick as she staggered into him. Through the gathering gas, he saw her mouth work soundlessly. Blood bubbled between her lips and her teeth were stained red. Hammersmith watched helplessly as she slid sideways and landed heavily on the deck, knife protruding from between her shoulder blades. His shaking knees finally buckled and he joined her on the cold steel. As the black engulfed him, he heard light footfalls approach. "Varnak, this is Three. Target is incapacitated." Ambrose Hammersmith fell into uneasy oblivion, haunted by the sight of Maverick's bloodied face. It's been an honour, her silent lips had said. And it had.
Alexandre crushed the aliens charred remains with a derisive stomp. It had been a small one, about the size of a cat. Hartwell, rigid with terror, had watched as she planted searing blasts between its chitinous plates and wrestled it to the floor. With an exaggerated huff, the fearsome woman blew strands of honey-coloured hair from her mouth and tilted her head back to gaze demurely at Hartwell. "Well really," she said, "if all you're good for is standing around looking pretty it doesn't look light … bright? … bright for us."
Hartwell sighed, enjoying the yammering of his heart. It meant he was still alive. He flashed what he thought a charming wink, and again realised that the adrenaline was making him uncharacteristically bold. He toyed with the idea that all those failed encounters with the fairer sex could have gone differently if he'd been half scared to death beforehand. Then he looked up and saw that Alexandre was already at the doors, checking a long corridor ahead. The light strips were on the fritz, and buzzed angrily – plunging the passage into sporadic fits of darkness. She handed Hartwell a cleaver that she had found in the adjacent chef's kitchen and motioned him down the corridor. They passed several mutilated bodies along the way, twisted like dolls. Scarred and oozing blood. It was disturbing how quickly the mind rationalised the scenes of misery and death, partitioning the fear and disgust into a neat little corner to be fully processed at a more convenient time. "Where are we headed?" Hartwell asked as she led him down yet another headache inducing corridor.
"The hangar. Here's to hoping my shuttle hasn't been too damaged …"
They eventually came to a laboratory that required clearance to enter. Hartwell felt the onset of panic, but Alexandre calmly removed a bloodied keycard from her pocket and swiped it through the reader. It lit up, green for go, but a mechanism in the door was faulty and showered the pair in sparks. The door opened a crack and then jammed. Behind them came a soul-rending screech and Hartwell's blood curdled as, far back from where they had come, he saw the brute. He watched in fascinated horror as a sac beneath its thorax pulsated wetly and it regurgitated the sizzling remains of an exosuit. Juggernaut pattern, if he wasn't mistaken. In the livery of the Ophelian Marines. Beneath this abhorrent behemoth surged a tide of its underlings, jabbering excitedly. He fell to his knees. Here was his end.