In the wee hours of the morning, Hoon-Kra waddled back towards his private study. He called it that, anyway. It was really just a slightly less horrible room in the horrible slum of a house he’d bought on Kirakna. The sniper they’d interrupted seemed promising. They could certainly use the muscle. The foolish priest of the Shredvrak congregation had cost them too many of the faithful, not to mention putting the Koomites on the Republic’s radar far too quickly. Any investigation would lead to Hoon-Kra’s doorstep, sooner or later. If everything went according to plan, he wouldn’t be around to answer the door.
Opening the door of his study, he was shocked to see the sniper sitting in his lounge chair, leveling a pistol at him.
“Your booze is terrible,” said Darvik. His shirt was covered in blood, and he held the pistol in one hand and a bottle of Hoon-Kra’s best honey-worm mead in the other.
“It’s an acquired taste,” he said as he sized up the situation. “It’s a Dromean liquor. On a completely different note, why are you out of your room?”
“Was it locked? The big fella didn’t mention that when he tried to kill me. Just left it open after he came in.”
Hoon-Kra raised a warty eyebrow in surprise.
“So,” said Darvik. “You didn’t send him.” He lowered his pistol. “I’m no psychic,” he continued, tapping his temple, “but I can read people pretty well. And I figured if you wanted me dead you’d have killed me while I was still tied up. Anyway, I’d like to upgrade my quarters and sleep wherever he had been sleeping. My old room is a bit of a mess.”
“I’m sure,” said Hoon-Kra. That was one less player on his team. In truth, though, he had never trusted the man. He didn’t trust Darvik either, but this one was clearly a more talented killer. Perhaps it was better this way.
“Now grab two of those glasses, Darvik,” he said, indicating a tray of tall, fluted glasses where the bottle had once sat, “and I’ll show you how to properly appreciate a fine honey-worm mead.”
***
When the shuttle door opened, a contingent from the city was already making its way into the field. Hrake was pleased to see it was led by Rhenka, the city’s elder shaman. Age had softened and wrinkled the scaly skin that hung off her bones, but her deep, black eyes twinkled with wisdom and mischief as she approached the shuttle. She wore the same bright orange leather as Hrake, though her harness and loin cloth were woven with ornate black gemstones, and she had blocky stripes of purple paint on her limbs and face. Behind her, the city guard wore orange leathers and bronze helmets, escorting a number of the lay elders in purple robes. The King was nowhere to be seen.
At the direction of the travelers, Hrake walked out of the shuttle first, greeting Rhenka and the others warmly. Then came Vanbrook, carrying the crate of gifts, followed by Raivyn, Reclan, and Doc Manford. Finally, D’Jarric walked down the ramp. The crowd had been awed by the first four beings, but D’Jarric’s appearance caused a near panic. Someone found the presence of mind to bow to the god who had appeared before them, and their lead was followed by others, until nearly the whole crowd had gone to one knee. Only Rhenka remained standing, leaning on her ceremonial hammer staff and smiling enigmatically.
Hrake turned to D’Jarric, who looked embarrassed and saddened at the display of worship.
“Hail, brothers and sisters,” said Hrake. “I am a humble envoy of our guests, who descended from the skies. D’Jarric, this traveler with the appearance of a god, asks you to please stand, and makes no claim of godhood.”
Confusion rippled through the crowd. Rhenka’s smile widened.
“Stand up, you fools!” she shouted merrily. “Warrior Hrake brings us a wondrous sign and more wondrous guests, and we must honor their whims as the words of gods!”
The crowd stood up. Some shook with terror, some stared slack-jawed at their guests. Hrake noted that this was a small portion of the guards and elders, and likely the bravest among them. Approaching the metal sky cart took a certain amount of boldness.
D’Jarric put a hand on Hrake’s shoulder, saying “thank you” in the travelers’ tongue.
“Our guests thank you,” Hrake said to the crowd. “They bear gifts for King Zrykyk, if he will see them.”
The captain of the city guard, who stood by Rhenka, sent one of his men to the city to relay the message. Rhenka approached the travelers.
Hello, she said to them via T-wave. I have long waited to meet such as you.
Raivyn was shocked by the elderly turtle’s ability to speak to them so clearly. “You speak Talpaertan?” she asked aloud.
I am sorry. I do not understand your tongue. May we speak this way?
Yes, replied Raivyn.
You must meet our king, Zrykyk. He remained behind in the city to prepare in case you attacked us. I am afraid our king is a fool, but he is our king regardless. Come, I will take you to him.
Rhenka led the procession once again, but this time Hrake and Talon Squad followed behind her, the guards and elders falling in behind. The stone walled city sat on a ledge atop a hill that overlooked the field. The massive wooden gates were already swung open on their huge bronze hinges by the time the group reached them, and they walked in without challenge or incident. In the streets of Gred, merchants and laborers either fled into nearby buildings or stood dumbstruck as the divine procession moved through the streets to the King’s palace. The buildings were all stone, many with wooden doors and trim. Much of the wood and stone had intricate carvings of characters or blocky geometric designs, a few inlaid with gemstones. Reclan surreptitiously snapped a few pictures for the expedition’s records.
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“Elder Shaman Rhenka,” said Hrake, “the situation is more complicated than you may know, at least for me. Zrykyk sent Gevrok and his brothers to kill me while I was on my visionquest. Only Gevrok survived. It may be best that I don’t approach the king right now.”
“Nonsense,” retorted the shaman with a careless air. It seemed that nothing could take the old psychic by surprise. “You must use the opportunity to rebuke your uncle, though you must do it subtly. Now, Hrake, what omen did you receive?”
“The only flying ‘creature’ I saw was the traveler’s sky cart,” he said, unsurprised that the shaman had simply moved the conversation to a new topic. “They call it a shuttle.”
The shaman smiled, then turned back towards the palace, beginning to walk up the steps. “Interesting.”
***
The first half of the trip had been quiet to the point of being dull. Crush was beginning to worry that the pirates wouldn't show and that this whole trip would be a bust. That was, until a stealth missile slammed into the side of the ship.
Crush rocked with the explosion and managed to keep her footing.
She reached for her comm. "Captain Tank, do we have a point of origin for that attack?"
"Yes, Admiral," answered Tank. "We've got a trajectory, leastwise, and we're deploying boarding skiffs in that direction."
"Excellent. I'll be joining them in the star tree."
Boarding her star tree, she took off after the shield skiffs. An innovation of her own design, the shield skiffs were troop transports loaded with boarding gear that had small, dense EM and physical shielding on the prow. It seemed like a simple concept, but the Ramshackle Collective would never have sunk the resources it took to protect boarding parties like that. However, it resulted in a far higher landing rate for skiffs, the real danger being what the boarding parties faced when they dismounted.
Soon the pirate vessel came into view. It was a boxy freighter of Talpidarian design retrofitted with antique cannons. The cannons were functional, however, and fired on the approaching skiffs. To Crush's delight the shots bounced off the shields, doing almost no damage.
The skiffs made contact with the pirate freighter, attaching grounding wires that would redirect the current if the hull had an anti-boarding electrical charge. The crews dismounted, locking onto the hull with mag-boots and immediately setting to work on the airlock. Using plasma torches, they made short work of the door and ripped it from its melted, white-hot hinges. The pirates attacked immediately, both from the airlock and the aether. They had posted some grunts, mostly Krauqians from what Crush could see, in the airlock with aetherwalk gear and pumped the air out, making ready for a counter attack. In addition, a small contingent of fighters had emerged from the ship’s hangar, firing on the skiffs.
“Skiff pilots and boarding party two, train your fire on enemy fighters,” said Crush. “I’ll draw their fire. Boarding party one, keep up the good work.”
The airlock was only wide enough for two or three combatants to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and the FRF had to transition from walking on the outside of the hull to walking inside the ship.
“Fall back!” called out the leader of the first boarding party, a wide, masculine robot. His troops stepped back and he tossed a grenade into the airlock. The explosion threw most of the grunts out into the aether, never to be seen again. The boarding party climbed into the airlock and started working on the inner door.
Crush was busy with the fighters, which were primarily of Talpadarian design but had aftermarket repair parts that looked more streamlined, likely Krauqian or Wabuluban in origin. You didn’t serve in the Ramshackle Collective for as long as Crush had without developing an eye for these kinds of things.
Talpadarian fighters were not known for their maneuverability, and Crush had shot down two of the five before one of her skiffs were destroyed. The remaining skiffs took out a third. Crush focused on pursuing one of the two remaining fighters, allowing the other free rein to fire on her star tree. Her hull held up, at least long enough for her to finish off the first fighter and round on the second. Between her and the skiff’s guns, they had soon destroyed all five.
“Admiral, this is boarding party one,” said the boarding party’s leader over the comms. “We’ve made it through the second door but we’re bottlenecked in the airlock. Looks like the whole crew has aetherwalk gear on.”
“Understood,” replied Crush. “Boarding party two, begin your assault now.”
A second party latched onto the hull and, activating their magboots, stomped over to the cockpit of the freighter, staying out of view of those inside. Placing charges at the seam where the clear polymer windshield met the steel of the hull, they backed up and blew the charges. The metal became white hot but the seam didn’t burst open as expected.
Crush watched nervously from her star tree. The plan depended on taking out the pirate’s commanding officers and then attacking the crew from two fronts. Neither could happen if the cockpit was impenetrable.
A call came in, requesting a video link. She answered it, and a fat Krauqian male appeared on her screen, his wide head in an ill-fitting aetherwalk bubble.
“Ah, you must be the one the Ramshackle Collective calls the Psychic Scourge,” he said. “I am Captain Truuk-Kal of the Mudhole, the ship you’re currently attempting to board, and I am hoping we can talk this over.”
Crush had not heard about her nickname before, and it gave her pause. However, she had other matters to attend to. She began typing furiously on her tablet as she spoke.
“No. The Free Revolutionary Fleet has been hired to put an end to your piracy, and we plan to. Unless you are offering unconditional surrender, then prepare for a fight to the death.”
Truuk-Kal laughed. “And can you offer me any assurances about my fate, should I surrender?”
“I don’t think you know what ‘unconditional’ means, Captain. All I will assure is that I’ll be handing you over to the Talpidarians. They’re offering the largest bounty. I assumed as much when I saw the design of the Mudhole. From the records here, you wore out your welcome in Talpidarian space a long time ago, though they’re eager to have you back, to the tune of several hundred thousand Republic platinum.”
Truuk-Kal’s face blanched, going from a deep, robust sage to a pale, mossy tan in a heartbeat.
By now, the second boarding party had begun the hard work of cutting through the walls of the cockpit, and their efforts had resulted in a hole large enough for several grenades to be stuck into. The blast opened a massive hole in the side of the cockpit, and it knocked Truuk-Kal to the ground. It gave Crush a deep sense of satisfaction to see him fall from view on her screen. When he stood back up, he put his hands on top of his helmet in a show of surrender.
“I’ll take my chances with the Talpidarians, then,” he said glumly. Crush felt a rush of elation as she accepted the pirate’s surrender. She hadn’t been a mercenary long, but it certainly had its moments.