Chapter Nine
Improvise. Adapt. Use what is available.
Those three precepts echoed in Yelena's mind, as she kicked-through the door of one of the 1st class luxury suites on B deck, looking for a high-grade ice cooler, or more precisely, it's HFC cryo-tank.
Through previous experiences with Smart-Vision equipped individuals, and specialised training on various environmental effects that she received as a Tyrant, she learned that hydrofluorocarbon ions had a scattering effect on the Xray sweeps used by the technology. At least temporarily, until the user managed to attune to the interference. The problem was... HFC was only normally used for deep-freeze. Still, it was her best chance to at least try to level the playing field a little.
As she passed through the bashed-in doorway, a gun safety-release click from the side, had her turning – to come face-to-face with a large, strongly-built, bald-shaven man standing a few paces away next to a door leading to the bedroom, a Zenith aimed at her face, held in a typical two-handed police shooter stance.
"DROP THE FUCKING GUN OR I'LL SHOOT YOU IN THE FUCKING FACE; DOWN ON THE GROUND! NOW! NOW!" - he yelled, in some variation of Midwest U.S accent, tense as a bowstring, in an incompletely concealed mixture of projected attempt at indimidation, and barely-concealed fear. Behind him, peeking from the bedroom, an attractive Hispanic girl giggled stupidly – probably an escort.
The cyborg woman resisted the urge to roll her eyes, recognising the pattern instantly, as she went very still and relaxed, her pheromone-analyser implant began pouring assessments of the man's emotional state, on her HUD.
Some American cop on vacation who smuggled his service weapon with him, looking to flex his micro-penis, and play hero. Just my luck... and I do not have time for this!
She thought, giving the man a taunting smirk, even as he began sidestepping for no particular reason, still keeping his tense aim on her.
"No." - as she deliberately lifted her left-hand TMP to aim at him – not too quickly, to give him ample time to react - in a long-practiced psychological ploy, to make an overly-tense shooter fire in a predictable pattern, easy to anticipate and evade. It was a uniquely Tyrant technique that Namir taught her long ago, devised by his long experience in various secret services, before he was drafted by the Illuminati.
It only worked on tense, nervous gunmen without much trigger discipline, but it worked like a charm, since the target's calm, and feigned indifference to their threats, made them psych-locked into a specific course of action, to try and 'impress' their force of will over them and try to scare them into submission. Which of course, made it especially effective on nervous, tense police officers, since they were trained to intimidate, with a weapon, instead of just open fire immediately. That basically allowed the technique to be applied with a near-100% effectiveness.
As anticipated, he fired out of reflex, tensing up even more and squeezing off shots – one-two-three-four-five-six - as fast as he could depress the trigger – at empty air.
Yelena casually twisted out of the way mostly by anticipation, barely even needing the reflex-boosting. One bullet whizzed relatively close past her ear, more by accident then by design, given his tense firing pattern. Others all went well wide, before he even began adjusting his aim. She had her other TMP up in a blink – but she didn't fire.
Instead, she threw the weapon at him, catching him in the face, and drawing some blood from his upper lip, as he recoiled with a surprised yelp, and reflexively brought his hands to his face.
Not worth a bullet...
She stepped-in close, no particular rush, grabbing his gun hand in an upward-lock, one hand on the barrel of the gun, controlling it, the other in a leverage posture under his supporting wrist, as he brought his aim back down. He tensed even further, trying to back away, but she twisted the gun barrel sharply-downward, dislocating his supporting wrist through torque-pressure as her leveraging forearm under it, went upwards at the same moment. Then her knee shot up to his liver – hard.
"AAAAAAGHHHH!" - the big man moaned in agony, folding over to stagger backwards into the bedroom, as the escort girl backed away in shock.
"You shouldn't play with guns, little boy. And juice less! Now be - QUIET - before I actually have to hurt you. Where is the ice-cooler?" - the tall aquiline woman asked, coldly, as she smacked him across the face to focus him, at the same time as she said 'quiet'.
Of course, Yelena wouldn't be Yelena, if she didn't jump at the opportunity to also bruise his ego. She could smell his indignation and rage, under the fear, and... under any other circumstances, it would've been a serious turn-on.
Maybe she was too... cavalier... with her attitude, as simply killing this man would've been less risky, but she felt like having some fun, after her near-escape from that formidable plasma-wielding operative. For Yelena, brushes with death were a potent endorphine release. An acquired instinct, perhaps... but a deeply ingrained one, all the same. In short – she felt playful, after a deadly fight. Something she sorely missed, for the past five months, no matter how much she wanted to deny it. Combined with the pleasantly stinging pain from the half-regenerated gash in her side... the woman's sado-masochistic nature was having a field day.
"P...p...please d-d-don't hurt me, ma'am! Please... I- I'm s...sorry... P-please..." - the man's entire demeanour changed in an instant, crying like a baby as he shrunk away from her, cradling his wrist as he adopted a half-fetal posture on the bed, given the shooting pain through his liver where she kneed him. Yelena had to smirk at the sight of an at least 100+ kilo man in underwear and undershirt, built like a rugby jock, crying like a little bitch.
M-hm. That's American police standards I suppose. Most police standards in Western countries, in fact. Weak, scared men with itchy trigger fingers, playing tough thru fake machismo!
She thought with some amusement, remembering a few events from the past, including the one in Mayrhofen, as she grabbed him by the collar of his undershirt, and slapped him hard.
"Ice-cooler. Now." - getting in his bloodied, tear-streaked face.
"K-kitchen... I-I-in the c-cupb-board... l-left side b-behind the d-door. B-big fridge-lookin' t-thing." - he managed, open terror in his eyes. So much so that Yelena had to consciously suppress the urge to slit his throat, right there, in sudden... dark arousal mixed with disgust.
"Khochesh', chtoby ya otrezal tebe yaichki?" - she whispered playfully, in Russian, biting her lower lip. He just shrunk back further, not understanding. But the unsettling look in the woman's dark, shaded gaze was enough to turn him pale. Then, realising she was slipping into a very... undesirable... frame of mind, Yelena shook her head to herself slightly.
Enough... enough!
Letting him go, to bawl his eyes out on the bed, clearly not used to dealing with intense pain, she collected his pistol and slipped it at her waist, and retrieved her thrown TMP. She glanced at the frozen escort girl.
"I'd ask for a raise, servicing mother's boys like this one." - deadpan, which provoked an involuntary nervous giggle from the young woman, before she went into the kitchen, and opened the indicated cupboard.
No, not mother's... 'mommy's' – 'mommy's boys'. Remember to adopt the lingo patterns, along with the accent!
A few minutes later...
"Anything?" - Vande asked softly.
The two, and another two covering their rear, were advancing slowly and steadily through the corridors on Deck B, fore section.
"No... it's weird. I'm picking up something out there... but there's some kind of scattering effect in the area. This way... I think." - Zelazny muttered, trying to attune his Smart-Vision.
But the strange... interference... was still there. And it seemed somewhat – colder – in this particular corridor. He didn't understand why.
They turned a corner, to notice an opened door down the hall. Hand-gesturing the four to spread out, he and Vande advanced forward, only to see that the doors weren't opened, but bashed-in.
"Hold the door." - he instructed, as he went in, drawing his ultrasonic blade.
It looked like a luxury suite, and he immediately noticed spent bullet-casings on the deck. From the next room, groans and moans could be heard. He went in, blade ready, to see a large and well-built, bald young man in his undies, nursing a swollen, clearly dislocated wrist, and a half-naked Hispanic girl tending to a nasty cut on his forehead. The man's expression was one of silent, impotent rage mixed with indignation.
"What happened here?" - Zelazny asked without preamble, ignoring the girl who scrambled away.
As the injured man angrily filled him in, he frowned, before heading into the kitchen to inspect the ice-cooler that was mentioned. An HFC tank was missing.
Okay, so you wanted a freeze-gas tank... but what for? Why would you need it... ? And why didn't you just off this guy when he pulled a gun on you? He's a witness, and a cop. Why take an unnecessary risk, going for a disable? Not very professional, Fedorova... and not something that fits your psych profile... I don't get it.
Yelena nodded to herself, taking a very quick look around the far corner of the hallway, at the three troops surrounding the entrance to the suite. The slowly-leaking HFC tank strapped to her back, made her feel freezing-cold, but it certainly did it's job, in shielding her from the enemy operative's Smart-Vision. At least until it ran out.
Useful... they can play detective while I find a way to get past their sentries, to the rear. Then pick up Jamella, and reconnect with Irwine. We must find a way off this ship... we are not equipped to fight them directly. Not with that one's ability to see me through the walls, and me almost naked without my armour.
Even on his own, that enemy operative had the advantage, outgunning her, out-armouring her, and out-sensing her, and would eventually corner her. She couldn't do much more then evade him. With an entire squad backing him up, her evasive options were a lot narrower. Especially on a ship, where they could simply lock down parts of it via chokepoints. And ALL of them were equipped with EM vision. She could use the passengers as interference, but that would just lead to more collateral casualties. Three years ago – she wouldn't care. But she wasn't that person, anymore.
No... I'll deal with you on my terms, not yours. I do not fight losing battles. And it has been three years, since I had a proper challenge. I could be a... little rusty.
She thought, remembering her assignment to eliminate Jensen. This man, whoever he was... he seemed to have some of the same abilities as Jensen. Including a hard-counter to her stealth, in the form of smart-vision.
But it made her smile slightly. She was still eager for a rematch. And since Jensen and her were now allies – this guy could be a suitable substitute!
Meanwhile...
Clearing out the maintenance deck of the assault craft, proved to be easy. Only two maintenance crewmen were there, and were easily threatened into keeping quiet, then restrained.
"How many more are aboard?" - Irwine asked under his breath, not wasting time, as the mohawked thug kept watch near the stairwell going to the main deck.
"S-six. Skipper on the – the bridge, Ulrich and Panya probably ah... in the mess, and those three soldier-boys Zelazny left to keep an eye on things."
So he left three to hold the fort... more then I expected... not good. Especially if they're armed properly.
"Any idea where they are?"
"Probably up on the bridge with the skipper... or at the Ops room on deck two. Maybe the Armoury."
Irwine nodded, motioning the thug over.
"Alright, game time. Weapons out, don't make a noise. We'll be moving up, and clearing each room. Looks like the crew won't give us trouble, but those three guys are a problem. We need to catch 'em by surprise. So no fuckups, got it? When we get the first, we'll have a firefight on our hands."
"Let's go, man... I wanna put a bullet in someone!" - the thug nodded enthusiastically, in a whisper.
Irwine led the way upstairs, entering the main hallway. The markings on the doors denoted the Armoury, the Ops room, and the Comms Centre.
May as well get something bigger then a pistol... let's hope it's vacant.
Irwine thought, picking the Armoury first. He hit the door-open button, and the two men burst in, to find one of the Inter-Guarda troops, checking over a stack of grenades.
"What the-" - the mercenary snapped, lifting his Sanction, as both men opened fire. Despite his armour, the multitude of rounds was enough to bring him down, but also depleted both guns.
"Grab his weapon!" - Irwine directed, as he dashed over to a stack of Widowmaker shotguns. Given the environment, he definitely wanted a close range room-cleaner. Picking one equipped with an extended drum, he loaded it quickly with Sabot shells.
Oh yeah... this'll do the job!
The raised voices outside were telling, and there was no doubt the other two would be converging any moment.
"Okay, take cover! They'll be comin'... and get away from those grenades! We don't want a stray to hit 'em!" - he added, setting up behind one of the thick weapon trunks.
The thug dithered for a moment, then found an empty weapon rack to hide behind.
"Come to papa, pendejos..." - he muttered, the Sanction aimed at the door.
Then ensuing firefight was brief, but brutal. To Irwine's pleasant surprise, the thug proved to be a more then decent backup, and even managed to stay alive, though not without taking one in the arm. The end result was what mattered though, with two additional armoured bodies in the doorway. This accounted for all three Inter-Guarda troopers, and like the man below said, that was all of them.
None of the rest of the crew gave them any trouble, including the captain, though he was restrained for the time being, just in case.
"Put pressure on that... we're gonna have to see if any of these crewers is a medic. Right now I'm gonna put a tourniquet on you." - Irwine assured him, as he found a thick length of strap, and begain to wrap it around the man's bicep.
For Jamella, the past thirty minutes were the longest thirty minutes of her life. She spent most of that time crouched behind the bed, sweaty hands on the Zenith aimed at the door, trying very, very hard to keep her mounting nerves under control. Ever since the jammers were engaged, she was completely cut off from Yelena and Irwine, and she couldn't go anything on her computer, either. In short, she could only guess what was happening outside, and listen to panicked commotion of passengers rushing outside in the hallway. Given her enhanced hearing, that was actually quite disturbing, since she could hear for quite a radius around her quarters.
Other then that, all she could really do, was wait, try to keep herself from going crazy with guessing what might be going on with her friends, and... pray.
Until, completely unexpectedly, the waves lit up again, just now, and her signal-intercept hardware began picking up Infolink transmissions, once more.
What the... did someone take down the jammers? How-?
But she didn't pause to think more on it, since frankly, she was just excited to be able to talk to Yelena and Irwine again. In her excitement, she didn't even think to use their encrypted channel.
~"Yelena! Yelena, you there?! Irw... ?! What's happening? You guys ok?!"~
Since they lost contact with Fedorova for the time being, Zelazny had directed the squad's tech specialist to try and locate the individual jammers, and disable enough of them to reestablish the comms environment. So far they'd found three of them, two repurposed smartphones, and one PDA. And it was enough to weaken the jamming effect to the point that they could now contact their vessel.
Strangely, there was no reply, but Zelazny assumed that was because they hadn't disabled enough of the jammers yet. What they did pick up, was something very interesting... an open Infolink transmission, with a very anxious-sounding subvocalised female tone, calling for Fedorova.
"Channel... locked! And I've isolated their frequency into a recursive loop. Fedorova can hear the transmission, but she cannot respond. Neither can anyone else! Why would they be using an open channel though-" - the British man murmured with a frown, fingers flying over his portable comm unit's keyboard, but Vande interrupted.
"Listen to the voice – she's freaked out, whoever she is! Probably forgot to encrypt it... can we backtrace the source?!" - she asked, a flash in her eyes.
"Easily." - the man looked up, with a slight smirk, before he busied himself on the keyboard again.
Yelena's look of shock, at the suddenly active infolink channel, and Jamella's anxious subvocal tone on it, was only matched by her dismay at realising that the girl forgot to use their private encryption.
Oh no... no.
~"STOP TRANSMITTING ON AN OPEN CHANNEL! Jamella! STOP IT! NOW!"~ - her desperate subvocal shout was met with no response. She gritted her teeth.
I have to get her out... now! Before they find her.
But the enemy was closer to the ship's midsection and Deck C, where their quarters were... and she still had to worry about not alerting them to her own location. She disconnected the link, and took off at a run.
"What's going on, guys... why aren't you asnwering... I'm jumpin' out of my skin in here..." - the young hacker bit her lip, getting no response from either of them. She still didn't realise she transmitted all that on an open channel... she was too anxious.
Wiping her sweaty hands on the bed's sheets as she put the gun down on it, she took a deep breath, moving over to the bathroom to freshen-up.
Outside in the hallway, she could still hear various people running around, and raised voices, as she poured herself another cup of coffee.
"I know Yelena, I need to lay off this shit... whatever... you're not my mom... you're too tall... and... you're way cooler then her..." - she muttered absently, trying to keep her nerves under control, as she exed-out the cup, and poured herself another. This... this waiting. This uncertainty was just too much to handle!
Suddenly, the gabble of noises outside her door trickled down to near-dead silence. She could still hear things further out, but there was nothing, just in front of the door.
The girl frowned.
"Yelena... ? Irw... ? That you guys?!" - she called out softly, moving over to the gun again, to pick it up. Her hands were shaking, though, from a mixture of caffeine and just plain anxiety.
No response. But there was a strange sort of... shuffling around... right outside.
"Guys?" - she repeated, biting the side of her mouth almost hard enough to draw blood.
Then the doors suddenly busted-inward, under an insanely powerful blow... revealing a large, heavily-augmented man behind them, stepping-in with a purpose.
"AAH!" - the girl yelped, stumbling back to the wall and squeezing off shots... but there wasn't even a thought given to aiming, it was all blind panic. A couple rounds bounced off of the cyborg's chestplate and left arm's armature, most of the rest went wide, and the one that accidentally went for his head – the man's head twitched to the side, evading it, with the same kind of insanely quick machine-like movement that she sometimes saw Yelena do.
She froze in fear.
The cyborg's expression was one of... mild annoyance... as he casually slammed the stock of his high-tech rifle across her temple, in a savage riflebutt.
As she felt the side of her head grow huge and pounding, and felt herself falling into a dark tunnel of unconsciousness, the last thing Jamella heard was...
"...bably their tech expert. Do we off her?" - a woman's voice.
"...ot yet. Cuff her. Could be useful bargaining chip." - the big cyborg's.
"N...no..." - Jamella breathed softly, before the world went dark.
Helpless.
Helpless... was a feeling Yelena didn't care for, and one she spent a large part of her life, actively trying to either minimise, nullify, avoid, or conquer. Mostly successfully. She was no-one's victim... most of the time.
The problem was... and it was one she realised might one day rear it's head – she now had people she cared about. She was grateful for her new family... but they were also a weakness. A way to get to her. A way to make her helpless, if anything happened to them.
Now, watching the mercenary squad from an air-vent, as they broke-down the doors to their quarters, and burst in... hearing the shots inside, and Jamella's muffled scream... helplessness was about all the aquiline woman could feel.
Helplessness... and scalding fury. Fury that she knew she couldn't let take over, lest it put her in danger too. She couldn't handle all of them. She likely couldn't even handle the leader, on his own. Not here. Not now. Not under these conditions. Not with his ability to see her coming. Her bioenergy supply was near-depletion, and she had roughly a magazine's worth of ammunition left, between both of her stolen TMPs. She couldn't save the girl, if Jamella was still alive. And if she was... they could easily use Jamella either as a human shield, or as a bargaining tool.
If she wasn't... if they killed her... if they killed the girl she came to see almost as her little sister...
The woman's jaw worked; pure, livid fury in her gaze, as she made a dark, dark pledge. But it was also accompanied by a trace of nihilistic resignation, her expression turning hollow, as she remembered her favourite saying.
All happiness is an illusion.
~"Fedorova? We've got your hacker. If you want her in one piece, you'll give yourself up. You've got five minutes to comply. Same goes for you Irwine, wherever the hell you are!"~ - an open Infolink channel sounded out. She assumed it was the enemy operative.
The woman closed her eyes, in dark despair. Of course. When she opened them, they were empty of all emotion, tightly bottled-up behind her mental barriers.
Irwine's breath caught in his throat, as his handheld Infolink transceiver also picked up the transmission. Hearing Zelazny's self-satisfied voice made him snarl in pure rage, kicking a trash-can hard enough to send it flying to the bridge's bulkhead, as the skipper he held at gunpoint, flinched.
"Zelazny, you son of a bitch, she's got nothing to do with-" - he started, but the man cut him off.
~"Nice to hear I've got your attention, terrorist piece of shit! Credit where it's due, you and that murdering Ruskie skank of yours put up a decent fight – no, actually, she did, you were nowhere so far... but it's over! Time to finish what I should've finished six years ago. Show yourself, or this young lady's gonna meet the good Lord's judgement."~
"You hurt her, and I swear God's gonna sit it out, before I'm through with you and your bunch of chumps! YOU HEAR ME?!" - Irwine roared.
~"Cute. You got four minutes."~ - Zelazny replied evenly.
"And I've also got your nice shiny boat, motherfucker. Your boat, three stinking rent-a-merc corpses, enough guns and explosives to equip an army, and another six warm bodies I can off if I feel like it! YOU HEAR ME, you traitorous fuck?! You wanna start taking hostages?! Guess what, two can play that game."
Michael Zelazny's expression turned to stone, in an instant. It did answer a few questions though, including the one he just taunted Irwine with. The slippery terrorist wasn't nowhere... he was busy boarding their vessel! How he got aboard was anyone's guess... Vande looked outraged, as the rest of the troops looked at each other in shock.
He glanced at their tech specialist. The gaunt British man just shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose that would explain why we haven't heard from Delta team." - in a matter-of-fact tone, that made Zelazny want to strangle him. Instead, he just treated him to a 'no shit, Sherlock' glare.