"Tovarisch Spy, are you acknowledging?"
"..."
"Tovarisch Spy, this is Tovarisch Cozmonaut. The capitalists have surrounding our craft and are readied the torches for welding. If you are not making your reply soon I will be force into action."
The astronaut sighs into the confines of their helmet. They whisper under their breath.
"Damn it, Natalya..."
Burly in their combat suits, capitalist forces huddle around their cutting torches in preparation. A technician ignites the fearsome tool, and as they touch the blue plasma jet to the spycraft's exterior a hydraulic ramp extends suddenly, mangling the assembled personnel. The fuel canister from the cutting torch explodes, making short work of the survivors. A lightly-armoured form wades through the smoke and vapour. It casually extends an arm towards the stunned crew of the other torch, and a crimson beam lances towards the other fuel can. A brilliant nova blossoms, reflected in the astronaut's dark visor.
"Pfeh, should have been using superior Siberian steel for your cans, pigs."
As they swagger with satisfaction out of the hangar bay they hear a bitter squeal ring out behind them.
"You're not going anywhere, pinko scum!"
Cozmonaut twists desperately and fires in the direction of the spiteful call, but they are too late.
The beam pierces the supine form of a capitalist engineer, who has already squeezed the detonator on a blasting charge hastily slapped to the hull of the Soviet ship. The bodies of the dead sapper and his brethren-at-arms are vapourized instantly by the blast. The ship's hull is rent wide, and a gout of molten titanium pierces the station's exterior bulkhead. The rapidly-expanding pressure wave slaps against the compromised wall plating and the fist-sized hole peels outwards with a shriek that is subsumed by the roar of the explosion. Cozmonaut is thrown backwards by the blast wave, and then yanked violently in the other direction as the recycled air, diffusing cutting torch plasma and atomized warrior remains evacuate the enclosed space of the hangar.
They scrabble frantically at the sides of the corridor, but they fail to find purchase before slipping through the doorway. Tumbling through the crowded interior space, they bounce roughly off the hull of a capitalist freighter before a lucky attempt allows them to snag the sturdy primary antenna of another craft. Their suit's shock compensators hiss as the armour fights to keep all of its occupant's bones in their sockets.
The antenna begins a heart-stopping sag before the bulk of the atmosphere vacates the compartment and the station's faint artificial gravity is once again sufficient to anchor Cozmonaut's feet to the deck. They fall to one knee, eyes bloodshot and nose dripping blood, breathing heavily as they wait for the world to stop spinning.
Hesitantly, they raise their arm. A cracked bracer panel lights up with a stolen map of the station. Shaking his head and waiting for his vision to clear, Cozmonaut wills the blinking 'awaiting connection' indicator to resolve its search. His helmet tweets a happy 'triangulation confirmed' tone, and despite his unsteady state the astronaut stalks off like a Eurasian Lynx.
Cautiously navigating the opulent corridors of the capitalist space station in disgust, the agent begins to close the distance to his partner's tracking beacon. Security teams rove the halls, but Cozmonaut is able to avoid a direct confrontation with them in the confusion of the blast's aftermath.
Once he comes face to face with a maintenance tech in a service corridor. A desperate, breathless moment passes between them as he closes the gap and bodily tears the comms module off the side of the tech's vacuum-helmet. A brutal palm-strike to their centre of mass winds the hapless technician, who is then folded over a hip and whipped headfirst into a fire-suppression system outflow nozzle.
The sound of the sturdy polymer helmet shell cracking is inaudible in the vacuum of the service corridor, but Cozmonaut feels the jagged split in the haptic pads of a gloved hand. He digs his fingers into the gap and wrenches the helmet free, using it as a club to batter the naked face of the dying technician. Heavy bruises mottle their skin, and streaking blood and tears glisten in the muted corridor lighting. Flecks of bodily fluids arc lazily off the helmet as it pistons up and down, filling the air with a sticky haze that settles slowly in the artificial gravity. With a final thudding impact the tech's thrashing body goes limp, and they are dropped unceremoniously in place.
"I am sorry, my friend. Know that you are died to make free your children from the shackles of economic slavery your masters would imposing upon them. Your sacrifice is not be in vain."
A vampire tap chomps down on the datanet uplink of the dead tech's suit. Cozmonaut fights to calm their breathing once more as they monitor the network for a comms storm that might indicate a successful report of his meeting with the unfortunate technician. Satisfied that they have not attracted additional scrutiny, they duck out of the service corridors into the station's central administration office. A glance at their bracer display assures them they are close to Natalya's beacon, though it cannot confirm the spy's actual presence.
Rounding the large arc of a reception desk, Cozmonaut catches sight of a cowering capitalist. They discharge their sidearm wildly, missing by a huge margin, and as the Union agent advances on them they turn and flee with a squeal. They are quickly followed into a side room, where a flash of crimson cooks a narrow hole into an overturned table and bores into suit and flesh alike. Superheated water expands quickly in the confines of their suit and the capitalist dies with a loud bang.
Scanning the space, the astronaut suspiciously notes a wall-length window that gazes into the darkened confines of the adjacent room. As if on cue the room lights up, revealing what an optimist would presume is an operating theatre but a cynic knows to be a torture chamber. Natalya's immobile form rests trussed to an articulated operating slab in the rough centre of the room.
"Tovarisch Spy!" he bellows, pounding on the sturdy window pane. Cruel laughter rings out, filling both spaces as an intercom transmits torture chamber audio into the observation room.
"Greetings, comrade." booms the voice of a gargantuan capitalist, new movement in the torture chamber drawing Cozmonaut's eyes. He can nearly feel the floor shake as the tremendous bulk of the armoured suit steps out from behind the operating slab.
"What would you know of being good comrade, pig?" the astronaut spits in the direction of the intercom panel. The colossal figure in the other room shakes with laughter.
"An amusing choice of words, commie scum. I must admit, it gave us all a great laugh when we learned that you call our new allies 'capitalist pigs' and we got them to show us just what a 'pig' is."
Cozmonaut's blood runs cold. So this station really was a joint venture between the Treaty Organization and some recently-contacted civilization. KGB documents suggested that this was the probable source of a new infusion of tech and tactics for their ancient enemies, and his mission here with Tovarisch Spy was intended to confirm as much. This made their escape all the more vital. The capitalist continues.
"You know, your propaganda speaks so poorly of the principles that guided my people to the stars... It was trivial to convince them to join your foes in this endless war. They think you hate us. The defense contracts my firm has collected are just, disgustingly lucrative."
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"To the gulag with your lucrative contracts, you would condemned your people to the life of warfare and economic servitude!"
"Economic servitude, my dear idealist, is the method by which the most deserving 1% of the populace are able to realize their wildest dreams and ambitions. Without it we would all be rooting in the mud like... Well, like some animal that lives in filth and subsists on whatever it can find."
"I see you are burzhuaziya." Cozmonaut sneers, his voice dripping with contempt.
"Your ancient epithets mean nothing to me you crimson fool. Your people, your laughable rival civilizations know nothing of excess."
As the giant's words boom over the intercom it stomps toward the observation window.
"So much greater the blessing that you found us to guide you."
The raw condescension in the figure's voice nearly causes the astronaut to flinch. Natalya stirs behind it and he cannot help but spare her a pained glance from behind his impassive faceplate.
"Not a -" she coughs wetly, "-blessing. A curse. A blight on our kind."
It whips about to face her.
"Shut up." it hisses, tone shifting from coldly smooth to a guttural snarl with terrifying suddenness.
"Filth. Broken plaything."
This time the astronaut does flinch. Natalya does not, eyeing the great creature's mirrored visor with a frigid tungsten gaze. Cozmonaut feels the anxious knot in his guts twist painfully as his heart swells with pride and warmth. He tries hard to ignore the red stripes and tattered flesh below her neckline.
"You idiot communists would doom the galaxy to an eternity of mediocrity and stagnation. It was only right that the Treaty Organization come to us to beg for their salvation. I do so adore making people beg for salvation."
Natalya spits a gob of coagulated blood on the being's feet. It backhands her so hard the chamber microphone picks up the crunch of her orbital bone breaking. Cozmonaut can take no more, and begins pounding on the window again. His fists make little headway, and he deploys his suit's utility hammer. As he frantically tries to break through he hears Natalya again, her voice a pained whimper.
"I will never beg, pig. Do your worst."
In spite of her obvious fear and discomfort, the words are wreathed in fiery resolve. The capitalist laughs mirthlessly, and when it speaks the smooth coldness has returned.
"I couldn't possibly, we simply don't have the time. Your little friend is about to break in to rescue you, and that would be such a pitiful waste of all the hard work I've sunk into you. No, I'm afraid it's time our game came to a close. You lost, in case you were unsure."
It turns to face the broad window, reaching up and popping the seal on its helmet. Cozmonaut cannot help but be distracted momentarily.
"You know, you got a surprising number of things right with your propaganda."
With a flourish it strips the helmet from its head. The astronaut hisses through his teeth as he shrinks from the window. A tall, sloping forehead levels off into a broad, flat snout. Beady eyes that are just human enough to be uncanny glare back at him balefully. Vicious tusks curl up around thick, fleshy lips. Cozmonaut feels the world tremble as he gazes upon his people's new enemy. Pigs. By the Council, the Treaty Organization's alien allies were actual fucking pigs.
The beast chuckles disdainfully.
"Yes, that was the first Treaty Organization messenger's reaction too. Shame, if he'd shown a little more spine I probably wouldn't have decided to eat him."
Natalya's voice, barely louder than a defiant whisper now, breaks Cozmonaut out of his fear-trance.
"Kiril, lyubov moya, you cannot fail. You must-"
"Silence." The guttural snarl returns briefly, but it is ignored by the two operatives.
"Natya, pozhaluysta, we will doing this together."
The creature hurls its helmet at the window spitefully.
"Damn you, you impoverished little shits. The... The naked insolence."
It turns back to the spy's tortured form.
"Another... amusing piece of propaganda you insufferable reds throw about is our love for eating the hearts of the poor. A crass take, if I am being honest. There are other parts I would consider a much greater delicacy, when properly prepared."
Cozmonaut's hammering on the crazed pane reaches a fever pitch, and the spiderweb of cracks grows to cover the entire sheet of glass.
"Alas, on the time scale I am working with the heart will have to do."
Natalya's voice rings out desperately.
"For the Motherland, Kir-"
A desolate howl catches in the astronaut's throat as he looks on helplessly. The massive alien plunges a meaty fist into the spy's shredded thorax and an agonising shriek fills both rooms. The shriek is cut abruptly as it wrenches the hand free, clutching a pulpy bundle of cartilage and viscera. Tears blur Kiril's vision. His knees collide with the bulkhead as he sags against the window pane.
"You bastard." he nearly chokes on the words.
It stares him down with cruel glee.
"I think the word you're looking for -"
It takes a booming step forward.
"-is pig."
A gloved hand clutches feebly at the cracked glass as the behemoth raises the fleshy mass to its glistening mouth and devours it with a wet smack. Kiril roars, every fiber of his being tensing with hate and rage and sorrow. The hammer arcs one last time into the thick glass plate, its blunt titanium face punching loose a keystone shard that releases the whole tortured centre of the window. Wreathed in an avalanche of spilling silicate, the astronaut surges through. He drops the utility hammer and a baleful red glow fills the room.
There is an impossibly bright flash, and an alarm begins to keen in Kiril's helmet. A moment later he is stricken by an excruciating pain and a loud bang as his suit's laser projector overloads and shunts waste heat into the material and tissue surrounding it.
The boar's rumbling laughter fills his ears. It seizes his left arm, hand now a smouldering ruin, and yanks mightily. He sails through the room, heart breaking anew as he takes in the ragged mess on the operating slab. He smashes into the bulkhead hard enough to dent it and falls to the floor, gasping for air. The boom of heavy boots on deck plating heralds his approaching doom.
"My new allies were thrilled with the performance of my laser attenuators in battle. I must say, it is deeply satisfying to use one in person."
Kiril is unable to muster more than a defiant wheeze. He scrabbles at whatever grips he can find to turn his legs towards the monster and raise his feet in a defensive posture.
"What's that you insolent little pinko fuck? You're sorry for what, wasting my time and blowing up my space station? You're forgiven. The security footage of you brutally murdering that maintenance tech will more than pay back that debt in propaganda value. I'm so glad I had him sent down there to see what you'd do."
Cozmonaut triggers the breaching charge in his right bootsole. A jet of molten copper lances through the armour plate covering the giant's bloated gut, followed by a focused blast wave that ripples through its insides like a gong strike. It is stopped dead in its tracks, sagging like a deflating balloon.
"No."
Kiril's voice is clear, devoid of any tremor or wheeze, as he rises to his feet.
"I am said that there is many ways for skinning of fatcat."
With a snick he unlimbers his combat sickle. He hooks his left elbow under the pig's broad, fleshy snout and wrenches backwards and upwards. The sickle plunges viciously into the furred flesh of its neck and Cozmonaut drags the curved blade deeply from one side to the other. He plants a boot square in the beast's back and shoves it face-first to the floor.
He spares a final glance at his love, gloved hand stroking a pale cheek that is miraculously untouched by blood or other mess. He grabs her case from a table containing her effects and looks at his bracer, swaying slightly. An auxiliary hangar is a short distance away and after taking a moment to confirm Natya's case has the data he needs he sets off.
As he hustles into the hangar he comes face-to-face with another maintenance tech. This one, apparently aware of the fate of its compatriot, is armed with a boarding shotgun and gesturing at him furiously. He drops the case, but before he raises his hands in surrender an idea occurs to him. Sweat beading on his brow, he hurriedly taps a sequence on his bracer display. The tech racks the slide of the gun, universal language for "Not one more fucking move," and Kiril prays to Trotsky that his suit's holoprojector is undamaged. The giant pig materializes in floating light, and the tech cocks its head.
"What's that you insolent little pinko fuck? You're sorry for what, wasting my time and blowing up my space station? You're forgiven. The security footage of you brutally murdering that maintenance tech will more than pay back that debt in propaganda value. I'm so glad I had him sent down there to see what you'd do."
The tech drops the gun in shock. Kiril slowly gestures with his raised hands towards a drab utility hauler with all green launch-check symbols on its status panel. The tech puts a foot on the gun, eyeing him warily. He slowly rises and, taking Natya's case with him, makes his way to the boarding ramp. The anticipated blast of shot never comes, and when the ramp closes and seals behind him he nearly collapses in relief.
Some time later Kiril sits at the helm of the hauler. He alternates between furious bouts of attempting to hack Union software protocols onto Treaty Organization computers and staring blankly at a bulkhead for arbitrary periods of time, cradling his left arm.
He has done a wonderful thing for his Motherland. Countless lives have been saved, and the relationship between the TO and their new allies is about to become considerably more strained.
When Kiril is trying to fight his way back out of the bleak hold of depression, none of that does anything to make the mission feel like a success.