Ravel’s shaking hands calmed at the touch of cool water. She dove in right up to the shoulders, drinking greedily until she damn near choked. Under the ghost-touch of centrifugal gravity the water roiled around her like a stormy sea, much of it spilling onto the floor.
Bloody lucky she was that the locals hadn't purged the water tanks before abandoning the shuttlepod. All it took was a little jury rigging to get the basin to fill to the brim.
Basin. It was in fact a toilet. In a water closet smaller than most actual closets. But Ravel trusted the purity of space station toilet water more than anything coming out of a planetside treatment plant. Yet it still said bad things about her situation, Ravel supposed, that finding a toilet fit for dunking her head into counted as luck. And deep down even that pittance of fortune made her nervous, expecting the fates to betray her when it really counted.
Atleast she was out of the gel-fluid. The fully inflated bladder for it sat by her side, it’s pinkish gray contents infested with strands of gossamer fur and specks she hoped weren’t fleas. Could barely look at it without the urge to heave. Emptied of the fluid, her bodysleeve hung off of her body like molting skin.
Her thirst sated, Ravel started scrubbing, working her face until the water turned milky from the residue. When she first came in and looked at the mirror she had seen an old grey nan staring back, her hair looking like a bird's nest covered with powdery guano.
Now her hide was restored to a shade of it's natural red-ochre, along with the swathe of black that lay over her eyes like a domino mask. It had a way of flattening her expressions into a perpetual glower and further obscuring her face under her hood. So she could tell herself that her preening had some tactical use.
But it would take a lot more than that to restore her hair and fur to it's lustrous black. The fur down her neck framing her face was badly matted. The ridges of fur that ran down her back and arms were crushed down to the texture of used toothbrushes. Her wide batlike ears would remain crooked and rumpled for the foreseeable future.
She would have liked to have been fully bathed and groomed before marching out to meet her maker, but too bad. The message chime sent to her commpiece meant break time was up.
- crew disembark confirmed. gave your tracker signal. theyll will find you when you get close enough. good luck. -
Another message came right after.
- also be careful. seriously. don't die. DEAD = BAD, OKAY?! -
Ravel rolled her eyes. As if she needed to be reminded.
She drank a little more out of the sink, then filled her camelback for the road. Her life support equipment was stuffed tightly inside her pack, auto-claws coiled around it. Once she was satisfied with how the weight sat on her rigging she shuffled out of the water closet, picking her way between rows of seats to a porthole.
It gave a good view down the middle hollow of PrinzRouen station, it's rotation impossible to notice now that she was sharing in it. In the distant gloom the crashed rocket still burned. A peach of an emergency landing on part of the helm crew. They had managed to wedge the thing into a furrow of pre-existing battle damage. All done remotely while maneuvering the Interceptrix to boot. But at the end of the day it was just another notch on the control stick for Corsair pilots. They were half the reason their sect was known as anything more than a pack of booze-addled thugs and stinking ne’er-do-wells.
Otherwise, it was bad news by the bushel. Much of the infrastructure that lined the interior had been torn to shreds by the machines before the Commonwealth showed up to kick them downwell. A direct route on foot was impossible. She'd need to delve deeper into the station's interior decks, then go back up again. Putting her right neck and neck with the enemy deploying in the cargo trench below.
The Interceptrix had done a capital job fending off the enemy ships, but at the end of it all only one had been fully destroyed. One remained untouched, and the other two being effectively mission-killed did nothing to stop shuttles from swarming out of the iris hatches. Some were still coming and going out of the cargo trench, pseudo-atmosphere shielding flickering against the efflux of each passing craft.
Dread was bubbling up from gut, yet Ravel still tremored with excitement, damn near bouncing on her heels. For battle thundered over the horizon, firelight dancing round the crashed rocket, and thus solutions to the aforementioned problems. It was time to get ready, she pulled her weapon holsters from her pack.
First her sidearm. A Highglory Arms Yellowjacket (not actually yellow), Economy Edition. Neither the cheapest nor highest quality as far budget pistols go. But for Ravel’s purposes it had it’s perks. Like a high capacity helix magazine, slotting in under the barrel. That detail required the barrel to be longer and the frame a little bulkier, but that could help compensate for the recoil with Ravel's more elastic arms.
The point was the hundred or so rounds she had to play with. In a small enough caliber to put holes in human meat but not the precious life-giving hull behind them. Also it had three-round burst fire setting, which was just plain fun.
But more importantly, her oath-piece was finally battle-ready. She unfolded the red leather packet onto the floor in lazy imitation of one of Morcair's warrior rituals. Upon it lay two conductive rails, each half again as long as her hand. They snapped together with the aperture piece in the middle. Onto that fitted the capacitors and power supply. Four little CurieCell fission batteries slotted into the bottom. Then finally by a low-angled revolver grip with an insulated trigger.
It’s entry in the Corsair schematic library called it a ‘rail-spiker’, and since she had not deviated one iota from the plan aside from dimensions she'd do the same. Customization would come in time. Any Corsair who sought to contribute more than a gun hand and a mouth to feed needed such a weapon. A symbol of their fidelity to the colours that set Corsairs apart from mere pirates.
Ravel probably wouldn't actually need it, she didn't expect to live long enough to make boatswain, let alone captain a ship. But she will die a Corsair.
The leather case folded to become an insulated holster, hooked into her belt. She gave the rail-spiker a weighty spin round her finger and slid it in to build up it's charge. Didn't slot in one of it's tungsten darts yet. It wasn't exactly a stable weapon, and an in-holster misfire could blow her leg off.
And just like that she was fresh out of excuse. She found the emergency escape hatch and moved out.
With the station’s rotation gravity lightest towards the center it was easy, if a bit treacherous, to leap and bound through the docking pit, dropping from catwalk to catwalk, crossing yards in single leaping strides. Ravel enjoyed it while she could, gravity would only become a harsher mistress from there.
After a bit of blundering around she found the upper maintenance tunnels, followed them until emerged into the high rafters of the cargo trench. Oxygen was holding stable despite the many cracks and seams running through the superstructure, courtesy of the pseudo-atmo shielding the Commonwealth ships were projecting over the station.
Good for Ravel’s oxy-budget, bad for how it allowed the enemy to set up camp right there on the floor of the trench.
First sign of what she faced was the smell smoke and meat, then rough voices rising in song. Of the language she had no ken, but from the tone and marching rhythm she could imagine the contents. Plunder, slaughter, rivers of kellian blood, that sort of thing.
She turned down the luster and shade of her poncho to match the metal of the catwalk, then crawled out on her belly for a closer look. Dozens of them were down there, camped in their little tribal cliques on both sides of the trench. Down the middle a train of men trudged on mag-boots, loading gear and ammo onto cargo trams. Their awkward gait betrayed a lack of familiarity with their equipment.
There were more dangerous enemies a kellian could run into, but few more abhorred. That they weren’t your standard soldiery was obvious looking at them. Physique-wise they were thicker, fleshier, less toned than the bodies produced by modern training programmes, like rough-cut stone compared to chiseled marble.
Their heads bristled with hair and beards of all kinds from the wild to the elaborately braided. Over their khaki-coloured flak vests they wore furs, leathers, cloaks and baldricks of patterned cloth. On their belts hung swords and axes alongside guns and grenades.
The Bastion Spheres Alliance grew such men like wheat on their Cultural Preservation Worlds. Fertilized with conflict and carefully directed development. Until the ships come down for the harvested. To show them more profitable enemies to fight than eachother.
Their like were a scourge upon the Reach, the motherworld fronts on Galatia and Rodina especially. Ravel zoomed in on their unit patches. Timber Wolves, their sigil the eponymous canine’s head in beige on a woodland camo background. The name didn't ring any bells, no way to tell if they had any actual experience fighting kellians until she zoomed in on their belts.
There they hung little strips of cured hide and fur, with a gamut of colours and coat patterns from across the Reach. Taken as grisly trophies to prove their bonafides. The rest sent to the Bastion Sphere to make hats and belts for the sickos among their upper crust.
Ravel’s fingers clenched, longing for the spiker. She considered the variables for carnage. The smoke looked promising. The warriors had hauled out portable fission generators and busted open the radiator units so they could roast meat over the red hot coils. They sat around the makeshift fires laughing and singing and toasting with both canteen and drinking horn, no doubt looking forward to the party.
One of their precariously placed oxygen tanks would do nicely. A cheeky little tungsten slug and a whole load of them would become very unhappy campers.
But no. She forced her hand to relax. No need to kick the hornet’s nest so early, not until she had kith to back her up.
Ravel snuck away before the urge became irresistible, following the station schematic Kimber had provided her. She had been kind enough to map out a route that covered as much lateral ground as possible before having to delve into the higher gravity interior. The closer she got the more she could feel irregular tremors through the walls. Evidence of heavy fighting between man and kith.
Her path downwards was a drone transit duct, she set up her last tether and spool and began to rappel. It was a little snug with all her gear, but manageable. She'd have a problem if some robot came floating in, but Ravel knew that wasn't likely.
Kept going until she reached the Promenade deck, the central concourse of the sector. The hatch emptied into a dark, narrow chamber. Rows of racks lined the walls, power cables hung from the ceiling. Robot charging stations, none of their occupants were around.
In one piece anyway. There were bits of metal scattered all over, along with dried splashes of what could be lubricant oil or coolant. At the end of a long scrape across the floor she found a little metal arm, it's claw still clinging to the metal. Ravel wondered if that counted as evidence for sentience, not that it did the poor bugger any good.
She got out of there before any lingering machine spirits took offense. Not that she had any great faith in such things, but with the planet below boiling with machine rebellion she figured it a safer bet than muttering to any terran gods.
Once she was on the move proper the more she noticed the change in gravity. Her gear sat heavier, her boots fell upon the ground harder. It was only zero-point-seven g, not too bad, comparable to Madrigal. Her rig and harness would still support it’s own weight up to full Old Terran gravity, her shock boots and muscle cords allowing her to bound along at a good pace. Yet she still felt that slight twinge in her knees. A prophecy of the osteoarthritis that awaited all kellians cursed to walk the land.
The promenade proper was ahead. Before she wandered into the open Ravel tied her ears back under her hood. Thankfully being on the short end of the kellian snout length curve allowed her to pass as human at a glance, but not much more than that.
The change was sudden enough to be confusing. One moment warrens of dust and rivted metal, the next she found herself in a cathedral of High Luciferian grandeur. The walls were glossy black like obsidian, rising into the high shadows. The support pillars on either side sprawled upwards like burnt and twisted trees. Floor after floor of terraces rested upon their boughs, seemingly light as leaves. The glass of storefronts still shone as if new, logos for cafes, boutiques and hotels glittered in inlaid silver.
The marble floor was long as the sector itself and wide enough to parade tanks through, which the dukes of New Betony had been keen to do at every opportunity. Anything to contrast the misery of planet from where they siphoned their wealth.
Ravel might have been impressed by the audacity, but the fact that it was on a space station sent it from tastefully decadent to obscene. But their waste was finally becoming useful, the wide spaces making it easy for the Commonwealth to set up shop. Tents for the refugees were set up in the laneway, Commonwealth personnel and supply stored in the stores and backrooms. All emblazoned with the Commonwealth sigil; a swathe of stars in the shape of a compass rose, white on pale green.
Four days into the evacuation effort the refugee's had been whittled down to a trickle. The mood was much the same as in Ravel's sector. The people hunkered down with their families, keeping to themselves. Whatever they had seen on the surface had left most of them grey-faced and sullen, awaiting rescue like the headsman's axe.
Same could not be said for the spacers. Or at least the dregs that were left. Those who had ships to go back to had already cleared out. Most of the remainder quickly joined the relief efforts. Those left after all were the like who thought this a perfectly fine situation to wander the side corridors drinking and carrying on.
It was their like that whipped up mobs against the station's robotic staff. And the ones in this sector had been real busy. Pyres of dead machines had been stacked up to the first floor terraces, polymer melted and metal scorched black. Ravel counted janitor-bots, maintenance drones. Nothing that posed a real threat. The Commonwealth personnel didn't condone or particularly like it, but their rules of engagement left them powerless to intervene.
With what the refugees went through it was perhaps understandable that they fell to the mania. But even after the fires had died down the spacers were still eager to chase down any robot they could find, and Ravel had no trust that they wouldn't decide a kellian was a good enough alternative.
One thing struck her as odd; the absence of Commonwealth forces. Then a blur of movement drew her gaze upward, figures dashing across the terraces at inhuman speed.
Commonwealth Civic Defense troopers. Almost didn't recognize them for the battle damage that coated their galaxy-famous OMA armour. They must have seen some real action on the New Bretony surface before being rotated to babysitting duty.
Aside from char and ash their armour was a fiercer, verdant green. The surface all smooth curves that seemed more organic than mechanical, styled like Old Terran olympians but with a strange insectoid flair.
The armour was bulkier than standard combat kit but far slimmer and form fitting than any suit of power armour. Yet that relatively small space packed technology unmatched since the fall of a Pleiades. In terms of strength, agility and defense it far surpassed all but the most advanced Bastion Sphere kit.
And the damage apparently did nothing to the functionality. They leapt off the terrace with ghostly blue streamers trailing from their heels and backs. As if feather-light they sailed clear over the pyres and out of view.
Happened that was where she needed to go, towards one of the primary transit hubs to and from the inner decks. Around the set of massive blast doors the Commonwealth had set up a cordon, troopers mustered at every access hatch. Local militia troops manning the perimeter.
They looked like they were preparing to advance inside, towards the fighting between man and kith. The idea that they planned to intervene against Corsairs made Ravel nervous, but Kimber did say that their assumption about the rocket crash was a robot ploy.
The spacers were also mustering, in their loose and drunken way. They spat jeers and insults at any in their sight, militiaman and trooper alike. They had particular ire for the big, bulky crab-bots the militia used for fire support, spitting and chucking crushed-up beer cans at the things. The bots had obviously mismatched tech sticking out of their CPU ports, most likely controlled by remote operators, but if the spacers knew they did not care.
A screech of feedback stung Ravel's ears. A civilian-grade stilt-walker ambled into view. Atop a fourteen foot high platform stood a diminutive figure in battered Commonwealth half-plate, the pips on his gorget marking him as a colonel. He held an intercom receiver to his mouth, his voice blasting out through the speakers on his walker.
“Fer the last consarn time, this is an active hazard zone! Clear out before you end up a statistic!”
"Kiss my ass, mutie!" Jeered some fool from the crowd, a salvo of similar taunts and slurs following.
"Yeah, greenie asshole, fuck off back to Orion!"
The officer’s curdled, wrinkles deepening. He was abhuman, a 'mutie' as the idiot sape put in. Beady black eyes and heavy bristled jowls spoke to pinniped ancestry in his clade.
"Yeah? You tough guys?"
He touched his gauntlet to his ear and mouthed a silent order. Two of his troopers broke from their positions and crossed the militia line. The spacers jeered and spat and postured. Until the troopers flashed their ray shields. Panes of ghostly blue energy projected off their armour, forcing the spacers to step back or get knocked on their arses.
"Lucky for you boys that's about all we can do, ROE being what they are." Lectured the colonel. "You want more? I'm sure the nasties in there would be happy to oblige."
As if to punctuate his words a deep rumble came from beyond the blast doors. As much tremor than sound, it rose up the walls and terraces, rattling the glass. Spacers gaped up and around, some breaking off. With his point made for him the colonel turned back to his men, barking orders.
But the cockerel show was not over, for that's when the Timber Wolves deigned to show themselves. They crept out of the alleys and started darting through the paths between the pyres. So quickly that it gave Ravel a start, she was right in their way.
With few options she clambered right up the nearest pyre, choosing to interpret the minor crackling from her rad counter as leaking fission batteries and not the protests of the mechanical dead. Keeping as low and small as possible she hunkered down waiting for the Wolves to stalk by. Looked like they were trying to envelope the cordon, take the greenies by surprise.
With Commonwealth tech? Impossible. Once one trooper noticed, all of them did, and reacted with blinding peed. They dashed and leapt across the floor, onto the terraces, even right up the walls. Until the Timber Wolves had a bead on them from every angle.
“You there, with the weapons!” Bellowed the Colonel. “Come on out and keep your hands where we can see them!”
Caught utterly flat-footed, the Wolves rose into view. Though being so easily outmaneuvered didn't seem to bother them any, strutting out like roosters with their rugged, bulky weapons still in their hands.
The officer was little amused by their attitude. “Well?! You apes better show me the man in charge or I’ll presume your keisters hostile!”
"Don't worry, little man!" One called out. "Hetman'll be along shortly-like"
“What?!”
The answer came with in the form of stomping metal feet. A column of hulking power suits marched right down the middle of the lane, spacers scattling like mice before them.
The armour didn't quite look military, more like industrial power frames fitted with both ballistic plate and heraldic cloth. Big swords and axes were carried mag-clamped to their backs, their guns built into their bulky gauntlets. The warriors within the high collared helmet wells looked aged, scarred, and pitiless to a man.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
At their head strode their leader, stocky and shortish, but making up for it with a broad chest and belly that gave him the mien of a walking boulder. He was clad in the same flak vest as any of his regulars, save for the sergeant's chevron above his unit patch. The face was, in a word, red. From his spade of ginger beard to his ruddy nose to the swathe of freckles across his tactically retreating hairline.
He rose a hand for his men to ease, then strode right up to the walker's heels and introduced himself in a rough but affable brogue. “Sergeant Gilles De Glaas, sir. Timber Wolves Strategic Solutions.” He offered up a palm to shake. “Pleased to meet you, milord.”
The colonel looked down on the mercenary as if he were shite on the sidewalk. That he wasn’t about to bend his walker's knee to accept a handshake went without saying.
“So what? Got a reason for these cro-magnons to be stinking up my hazard zone? I don't take in stray mercs!”
Smile undampened by the colonel's scorn, De Glaas withdrew the hand.
“Business, sir. Interested parties have sent me to take care of some of your... problems."
The Colonel let out a snort, projected through his speakers in a way that could only be intentional.
“Only problem I got is mechanoids.” He looked over the ranks of Timber Wolves standing by. “Your boys ever fight clanks? Don't look much equipped fer it.”
"Nay, milord. You surely have that business well in hand. We're to take care of the kellian side of the equation."
A snort of laughter from the colonel. “There is no kellian side of the equation. You on the wrong end of the galaxy for that.”
De Glaas’ smile glinted, a couple of gold teeth scattered among surprisingly well-polished whites.
"I assure you the threat is quite real. My benefactors are absolutely sure of it."
"Okay, I'll bite. What benefactors?"
“Wealthy men, sir. Influential. And to a man good patriots of your Commonwealth." Said De Glaas, before defusing his tall talk some with a shrug. "Or so I'm told, they're too high and mighty to be consorting with the likes of me directly.”
The colonel's jowls bristled in agitation, showing his own teeth. Not quite so pearly, but those canines were blunt and brutal, about the size of De Glaas’ meaty thumb. Good squid chomping teeth. No walrus, him.
“Names, dickweed. Gimme names and acronyms.” He said.
A pall of silence settled over De Glaas. A brief glance to his wolves, none were about to run. The Commonwealth troopers stood like statues, white bug-eye optics staring, weapons shouldered but pointed down.
Above the cheery smile De Glaas’ eyes were hard and flinty. He idly scratched the side of his mouth with his thumbnail, then said.
“Apologies, but these men who would prefer their anonymity-”
“THEN FRAG OFF!”
Ravel winced from the screech of feedback. The colonel’s max-volume snarl echoed down the Promenade, in the distance Ravel saw some refugees poke their heads up, then shudder back down.
Without another word the colonel again turned and strode away, until the legs stopped and seized. The walker lurhced back round, then the knees buckled. The colonel was near thrown off the platform as it plunged down to the floor.
The Commonwealth response was instant. Troopers darted in and activated their shields, covering their commander behind a shieldwall of energy. Weapons bristled between panes of light and at the flanks, putting the Wolves in their scopes.
The Wolves raised their weapons in turn, dropping to their knees and darting behind cover. Lot real eager the lot of them, spoiling for a fight.
Which would go swimmingly of course. The almost toy-like weapons the troopers held were only some of the most advanced small arms in galactic history. Including kinetic hyper-accelerators that fire metal grains so fast they scream out as golf ball sized bolts of plasma. Or neutron pulsers that can rip apart a warbot at the atomic level.
But the Timber Wolves looked confident in their chances, and they'd be turned into one big carbon smear fast enough that they wouldn't have to reckon with their idiocy. Ravel just hoped the weapons were on low power for to not destroy the hull they were standing on.
De Glaas raised a hand. “Easy boys, easy.”
Just as he spoke the shadows by his side seemed to ripple, a figure melting out of the very air. They were slim but taller than De Glaas, a brown flight jacket, over a sleek bodysuit. Their face was covered down to the neck by a respirator mask, framed by a mane too blonde and voluminous to be anything other than a wig.
Ravel puzzled over who she was supposed to be looking at, until she saw the sigil on her shoulder, then it made perfect sense. From a distance it looked like a pair of golden wings, until she zoomed in to see that the feathers were actually weapons. They progressed from large to small. Ballistic missiles at the tips going down to railguns, howitzers, machine guns and rifles. Until the wings met at the center, joined by a pair of cross revolvers over a five-pointed star.
Freelancer. And a gold-rank at that. Working with the Bastion despite their centuries of contention? Why not? With the balance of power so quickly tilting, it was an era for turncoats, collaborators, and hypocrites. Why shouldn't the galaxy's premier guild of war heroes for hire get their nose in the trough?
"That's more than three strikes." She said, voice obscured by a metallic rasp. "We don't have time for your bullshit, just show him."
De Glaas spared his companion only a sideways glance. "So that's authorization?" A sharp, lopsided smile. "You gotta say it, lass."
The stranger let out an annoyed huff. "Yes, I authorize you. Just use the damn badge, will you?"
“No sense of social grace, you people.” De Glaas said with a sigh, digging a hand under his flak vest. He strode towards the wall of energy shields, nonplussed by the weapons trained on him.
He pulled out a little black leather packet and proffered before the colonel, let it fall open.
The colonel was busy nursing the back of his neck, until one of his men looked to De Glaas, then to him. He looked at the packet and his face fell.
A strum ran through Ravel’s nerves. There were few things in the known galaxy that could crack the pride of a Commonwealth officer. And that was the Vendémiaire-Aldebaran Treaty Commission. The enforcement arm of the very treaties that kept the Commonwealth-in-Exile and Bastion Spheres Alliance from restarting their war and tear eachother to shreds.
The colonel’s face stiffened and a fierce glint passed over his eyes. Weapons were still pointed both ways, fingers on triggers.
Do it, Ravel willed. All it would take was one bad incident and the sordid status quo of post-humanity could come crashing down.
Obviously, another round of washed-up hegemon war would be a disaster for the galaxy, but also a boon for kellians and the Reach. According to some projections, the Bastion would require at least half of their fleet strength just to survive a direct slugfest with the already consolidated Commonwealth armada, much less win.
They would have to pull forces out of the Reach, perhaps enough to flip the war entirely. A lot of boots would be taken off a lot of kellian necks with just one pull of a trigger.
But no. In the face of the badge the colonel sagged, he mouthed a silent order. The shields flickered away, his troopers stood down.
De Glaas' voice rang out. “Roll in there boys! No muckin’ about, and no taking pelts until the smoke’s cleared!” His men were scrambling even before he finished his sentence. “And remember, have fun!”
"We should pull the planetary militia as well." The masked woman said to the colonel.
The man's face twisted into a rancid scowl. "What're you talking to me for? Just show 'em the consarn badge."
"That we will." Said De Glaas, so very pleased with himself lording over one even shorter than he. Again he held out a band. "Pleasure doing business with you."
The colonel said nothing, not even acknowledging the hand. When it became clear that the coveted handshake wasn't happening De Glaas shrugged and turned away. And with a snap of her fingers the woman released control of the walker.
Suddenly Ravel's comm crackled open. "Heya, what's the word? Kimber said."
"Bonny timing." Ravel replied. "Yer nae gonna believe this..."
Suddenly the woman's head turned, the faint yellow glow of her optics pointed right Ravel's way.
"Oh shite!"
"Huh? Rav, what's wrong?"
"Shut up!" Ravel snapped as she ducked out of sight and began clambering down the pyre.
“What?!” Kimber replied, more than a little miffed. “The hell is your problem now?”
It was then that Ravel remembered the emergency codes. “Delta-Rackham-Five-Two-Niner!”
Kimber’s rancour dissolved in a moment. “Oh shit, sorry! Going dark.”
The comm clicked off. Eager to get down before she was seen Ravel took one last leap down to the ground level, letting her boots take the impact. She hit the ground running even as the impact shook her knees, then ducked into the first alley she saw.
Equipment compromised, means unknown was what the code meant. Whoever that woman she had some arrangement of tech to simulate old fables of esper technomancy. She didn't know what that meant exactly, outside of serious amounts of money.
A shadow flitted above her head, Ravel glanced to see the woman leap right up to the second level terrace, perching on the guardrail. Their face scanning to and fro.
Ravel turned off her battery, and everything went dead. She felt the muscle cords loosen, the weight of her gear pressing down on. But she wasn’t some narrow-shouldered Pelagan second son what cannot bear the weight of their own panoply. She planted her feet wide, rose and legged it. She pitched forward as she ran, letting her mass spur her forward.
More tremors came from the inside. Combat was still raging, and the Timbers Wolves were converging on it like moths to a flame. Most had already flooded into the main entrance, but others were running through the alleys, looking for side hatches. Ravel had to periodically duck into doorways or under piles of debris a few times to let some of them pass. She couldn't risk running into them, had to find an emergency hatch or drone chute.
Soon enough she found a clear run toward the high cylindrical wall of the transit hub. It lay at the other side of a wider laneway that once gave mag-carts access to store warehouses. There was little cover and was well lit enough that any Wolf coming either way could easily see her.
She was getting tired, and wanted as much mobility as possible in case she was spotted. No sign of her Freelancer, so Ravel felt safe enough turning the batteries back on. Once everything was booted up and running she press ahead. The coast seemed clear enough. Once she was about halfway across she risked opening comms.
“Kimber.” She breathed between bounding strides. “I think I’m in the-”
Her words choked in her throat as the muscle cords around her left leg seized, then her right. She tripped and faceplanted onto the floor.
"I knew we were being watched." Said a new voice in her ear, transmitting directly into her commpiece, icy cold but not quite cruel. "And I know what you are."
Ravel twisted against her bindings, scanning to and fro. Right behind her the Freelancer stoo, keeping a fair distance. The cords round Ravel's arms weren't strong enough to restrain her like the legs, so very carefully Ravel shifted her hands under her poncho, one to the power button and the other to her gun.
“Just a kellian, the hell are ye on about?” Ravel murmured, assuming they could hear.
"Come on. Obviously I am familiar with your technology, not often seen outside the reach. What else can you be but a Corsair?"
"Dinnae ken. I could be a KSA agent for all ye know."
"Hmm." They stood statue still, hands clapsed behind her back. If there weren't a gun there Ravel would eat her boots. "It is common knowledge that whatever remained of the Kellian Solar Alliance was folded into the Corsairs. That just leads us back to home base."
Ravel couldn't help but smirk. What became of the KSA was in fact not common knowledge. As far as the civilian newscasts were concerned the KSA was still the big bad tyranny leading kellians astray against humanity's guns. That the Nuevotoro attack even happened, let alone left survivors to go Corsair, was barely known outside of military circles.
That meant only one thing.
"Arright, maybe I'm Corsair." She said. "And yer fecking Bastion."
The Freelancer quirked her head. "Presumptive. Though I suppose I'm one to talk."
"Guessing you're from Messidor, with the dry-arse hair and boho accent." Ravel said. The oppo seemed to want to chat. With no Timber wolves incoming that suited her just fine. She kept her hands on the gun and power switch, waiting for the right moment.
"Close." Said the Freelancer. "Actually, I come from Prairial. And I assure you neither the authorities of Messidor or the Bastion Sphere were friends of me and mine."
"Yet you're running with their bloody mercs? Pull the other one."
"They were not my choice, and I was in fact hired by the Commission to provide a counterbalance to his... fervour."
"So you're the good cop." Ravel sneered. "The one who's gonna be all sympathetic while them monkeys are putting the knife to me."
"That is... a possibility." She took a step forward, Ravel had to stop herself from drawing and shooting. No, not until the hands move. Ravel wasn't fool enough to try her fast-draw against a gold-rank Freelancer. "But I have my own methods, one that would solve this problem with De Glaas' involvement kept to a minimum."
"And wot's that feckin' mean?"
"It means that I am as much a corrupt cop as good one. I am in fact undercutting the VATC just by talking to you."
"So... you got a proposition." Ravel's ear twitched, boots and voices were coming from the left, distant but moving fast. "No more implying shite, just stay it."
"Okay. I would repeat to you the offer I transmitted to your captain. Give me the package, and I will let you slip the noose. You, your ship, and your crew."
Package?
"That's it? You just let us live?" Ravel let out a bark of laughter. "Like we're just a pack of hab-gangers? Downright insulting."
"And you have a new ally under the table. With whom you can pursue our mutual goals without bloodshed."
Ravel could have laughed aloud, only reason she didn't was the risk of her voice echoing. "We're a war, you bloody fool. Only mutual goal we got IS bloodshed."
The Freelancer just shrugged. "What about ending the war?"
Ravel said nothing, casting glances back and forth down the lane, taking her sweet time with the silence. She had learned in the Creche that silence can be interpretive. Kellians usually just assume you didn't hear and say it louder, but humans often found meaning in the absence of words. Like surprise, or doubt.
"Bollocks." She finally snarled, shaking her head. "How am I to know ye winnae shoot the second I turn me back?”
A soft laugh, Ravel's hand tensed on the pistol as she moved. Slowly they unclapsed their hands and raised them as if to surrender. Ravel expected a weapon to pop out of her sleeve, but it never did.
“See? No weapon.”
Perfect.
First Ravel clicked off the power, and the restraining muscle cords went limp. Second she rose to a squat and drew, quick as a marlin. Juno's hands were still in the air she pulled the trigger, no chance to react.
She fired once, then twice. Three times. Letting the mass of her kit take the recoil. Two bursts, six bullets. Dust puffed off the Freelancer's chest and shoulder and she toppled into the shadows.
Shouts drew Ravel's eye down the lane, they were coming. When she looked back the Freelancer was nowhere to be seen.
Not a confirmed kill but close enough. She turned the power back on and ran. Hit the power override to get it moving faster. Hopefully it would confound the Freelancer's ability to infiltrate her tech.
Soon enough Wolves were on the scene, aiming their weapons to and fro, finding nothing. Ravel didn't press her luck, slinking away and making right for the high wall. Dropping the Freelancer was too easy, but no use changing the plan right then. She ran along the wall until she found a hatch cover. It indeed looked like a waste outflow, but beggars can't be choosers.
Pulled out her plans-torch and got it burning. No time to be delicate, she attacked the locks as quick possible, relying only on the drape of her poncho to conceal the light from any onlookers. Soon the cover came free, revealing a small pipe that didn't look too disgusting. But it was a little small, quirking her head to compare. The age-old factoid that a cat or ferret could squeeze into any gap they could fit their skull through wasn't quite accurate for kellians, but close enough.
Voices coming in, they were drawing closer. Time was up, and getting stuck in a pipe was a better death than flaying anyway. So she shucked off her pack and shoved it in, activated her auto-claws with orders to haul her stuff into the tunnel ahead of her. Then, just in case, she slotted a tungsten dart into her rail-spiker.
Then there was a crunch, way too close. Like a foot trodding upon a leaf. She shut off the torch and glanced behind.
Nothing. An empty hallway. Ravel breathed out her nerves, shoulder’s sagging. Must have been a spot of radio noise.
A sing-song whistle nipped at Ravel’s ears. This time above. She leapt to her feet.
Right into a bullet. It winged her shoulder, sending her spinning onto the floor. The bullet failed to penetrate the poncho, but by the powers it hurt like the devil.
“Disappointing.” Said the not-so-dead Freelancer, a little snub-nose revolver in her hand. “I was really hoping you of all kith would listen to reason.”
Writhing up to her knees, Ravel followed the voice and saw them, sitting atop a pipe with their legs swinging like a child on a park bench. Voices from afar echoed in alarm, the gunshot drawing them like moths to a flame.
“Feck are ye talkin' about?" She croaked out.
She tried to pull her pistol, but the muscle cords had already tightened, all of them. Her arms twisted until the joints strained, the gun fell from her trembling fingers.
The 'Lancer dropped down from the pipe, landing silent like a cat. The bodysuit she wore under her jacket didn't exactly have space for cables or supports. Ravel suspected cybernetics on top of the apparent technopathy.
"Your people. No other kellian has suffered so much, so pointlessly in this war. What happened to Madrigal-"
Ravel let out a snarl of rage. "Keep that name outta yer fucking mouth!" She furiously flipped the power, but it wasn't working. Her muscle cordswre still locking her limbs. It's an analog switch. How?!
"I apologize." The Freelancer said mildly. "I did not mean to-"
Out of options, Ravel hit the emergency release. The cords thrashed as they were jettisoned off her rig. In the same moment she found the hilt of her knife, long with a wickedly tapered point, perfect for filth such as her. She drew and lunged in one quick movement, faster than any sape could manage. Went for the side of the ribs, the liver. Even if she couldn't penetrate the bodysuit she could make it hurt.
But the Freelancer wasn't any sape. She had already sidestepped the blade and caught Ravel's wrist. The sape's fingers closed like a vice, then threw. Before Ravel could so much as thrash it she was rolled arse over ankles. Hit the ground with a painful thump.
"See, that's not going to work." Lectured the Freelancer, looming over her. "You simply don't have the means to kill me. Especially not that pea-shooter, not even if you put it right between the eyes."
"Arright. Take yer word for it."
Ravel drew that rail-spiker weapon, jabbed it at the woman's head and pulled the trigger. The premature thrill of victory faded when she realized that nothing happened. Ravel pulled the trigger again and again. The weapon clicked, but no discharge. She didn't understand, the weapon was loaded and primed, she could hear the rails humming.
"Must be the trigger wire." Said the Freelancer before she twisted the rail-spiker from her fingers and set it aside. She then stopped Ravel's next snarl with a hand cupped over her mouth. Ravel could see under her jacket, a bandolier of grenades strapped over the bodysuit.
"Now it's time to listen." The Freelancer's voice took on a strange hiss of vehemence. "Your Captain and crew are not long for this world. Every moment De Glaas tightens the noose. If you want to save them, you must choose to trust me."
Just then Ravel twisted her head away from the hand, lunged with her teeth and clamped right down on it. But a shock of pain ran up to her gums as they found naught but hard metal.
"These ain't rookie brats like me." She hissed instead. "Your boys got nae ken who they quarreling with."
"Yes, we know all about the Old Chariot. Captain Dakhma, Terror of the Taurus Expanse. Morcair of the Charwood, who has avenged his clan sevenfold and counting. Not to mention a dozen more red-flagged on the watchlists." The Freelancer bent to a squat at Ravel's side, the voice in the comm turning low as if speaking secrets. "But in the end it doesn't matter, because we have the numbers. Six companies with us, and more on the way."
"Ha! Let 'em come."
"Oh, I've no doubt your crew could kill them all, theoretically speaking. But your problem is supply. Once they run out of ammunition, power cells? It is over."
Ravel could have laughed, but kept her mouth shut. Yes, but it was only half of the picture. The Corsairs had the home field advantage, they had void-survival skills that the wolves did not. And once more parts of the station breaking the Wolves advantage in numbers would only amount to a superior number of corpses.
If a silver-rank somehow didn't know that, then Ravel wasn't about to clue her in.
"But there's another way." The Freelancer continued. "Work with me. We can save your crew in the now and millions more in the future. Both human and kellian."
The Freelancer's gaze snapped up as voices came shouting down the corridor. To Ravel's confusion the woman slid Ravel's knife into it's sheath and the rail-spiker into the holster. Then she stood, not interfering as Ravel scrambled to her feet.
"You're out of time, gotta get moving." The Freelancer dropped Ravel's pistol, then slid it across the floor with her foot. "Take it."
Ravel stared down at the weapon, completely dumbfounded, suspecting a trap. "Why?" She said.
A soft electronic laugh. "You already know that's not enough gun to kill me, and there's dozens of them. The only person you can hurt with that weapon is yourself." They cast a suddenly hurried glance over her shoulder. "There's no choice. Pick up the gun, put it in it's holster, and run. Bring my offer to your captain."
A moment passed where Tavel didn't move. "You already said there be no choice. What's the point of this?"
"Just because you don't have a choice, doesn't mean you can't make one. Exercise agency. And that's important. You would be of no use to me coerced. This has to be done of your own free will."
The warriors were in sight now, noisy silhouettes rushing down the corridor. Ravel stooped and picked up the weapon, but did not yet run. The Freelancer stood in front of her, keeping Ravel out of their sight.
"My name, by the way, is Juno Villiers."
"Oi, you there!" One of the warriors snarled. "Identify yourself or die!"
Juno turned a glance over her shoulder, raised a hand. "At ease, boys." She called out. "It's just-"
Ravel then sprang into action, darting aside Juno and raising her weapon. Sighting the first human she saw and fired, drilling a burst right through the man's face.
Juno's response was instant, swinging around and clocking Ravel in the head, knocking her to the floor. The next moment there was a cry or dismay, immediately interrupted by a racket of returning fire.
Bullets cracked over Ravel's head, and Juno fell beside her, writhing on the ground with blood trickling from her bodysuit. "Cease fire!" She screamed, hoarse with pain.
At once Ravel rolled onto her shoulder and aimed her pistol. Put it right between the eyes and fired. The bullets hit with a sharp crackle and the woman's face came alive with light. Scales of green energy covered her head for a brief moment, then disappeared. Her head snapped back hard enough to cause whiplash but was otherwise unharmed.
Guess she was right.
"Piss!" Ravel snarled, before scrambling over to the freelancer. She reached into her jacket, snagged a pin with her claw. Took it with her as she picked up and ran.
"There! Boggie on the move!" One screamed behind her, boots pounding in pursuit. Juno struggled to feet and moved to meet them, just before the explosive went off.
Ravel stumbled from the blast wave, suddenly finding herself wreathed in smoke, her ears ringing. Just a flashbang, she thought with annoyance. No matter. She snatched up her muscle cords, dragging them behind as she made for the pipe. The shouts of confusion and pain behind her were soon joined by blind gunshots, whizzing by her head. Ravel replied with a salvo of her own over her shoulder.
"Alive, damn it!" Juno screamed through the smoke. "We need that one alive!"
Ravel shoved the muscle cords in first, then dove in just as the Wolves came in behind. With a click of her gauntlets the auto-claws snaked in grabbed her by the wrists, then pulled. But not before a meaty hand snagged her ankle and began to pull.
A tug of war ensued, one Ravel knew was already lost. More and more Wolves joined in, grabbing Ravel's legs or pulling against the belts of others. Her auto-claws could exert strength, but no enough to overcome the sheer mass of meat against them.
With her chest pinned to the floor Ravel couldn't get at her pistol. So she went for the spiker. Slid it out of the holster, at once power arced from the rails to the metal around her, helpfully letting her know that this was a very bad idea.
But it was the only one she had. She twisted around, rails aligned sideways. Pointed it right down the center of the wolfpack.
"Look, it's a red!" One of them crowed, a perverse smile on their scar-marked face.
"Careful then!" Another said. "Don't hurt the pelt, that's gold on legs!"
Then the first one noticed the rail lock, the greed writ on his face melting away into confusion.
"Eh? What the hell is tha-"
Ravel bit her own lip in anticipation. Please work, she thought, then pulled the trigger.
The tunnel exploded with light and noise, and a wave of spasms ran through Ravel's body. She didn't even notice the hands fall from her legs, they had gone numb. She forced them to move best she could as the auto-claws dragged her down the pipe. When the light faded Ravel dared a look over her shoulder, through the gloom of hot metal dust she saw a mess of blood and bodies along where the tungsten dart tore it's path. At the far end a body was slumped against the wall , a messy hole in their chest. Another man writhed on the ground clutching the bloody red stump that was left of his arm. Through the ringing in her ears Ravel could just about pick up the screams.
"No fecking quarter." She hissed as the auto-claws grabbed her shoulder straps and dragged her foot by foot by the tunnel, she forced her limbs to move through the pain and start crawling.
"Not ideal, but I can work with it." Sighed Juno in her ears. Ravel glanced back to see the sape limping through the dead and dying before squatting before the pipe, yellow optics staring right at her. "I will contact you again when the time is right."
With a snarl Ravel writhed to get at her pistol, but Juno was already gone, and Ravel needed to do the same. She crawled until the there was naught but dark around her.