Exploring this forsaken starship wreck was a reckless notion, the rusted hull groaning like a dying beast. Dust motes danced in the dim light, illuminated by occasional sparks from frayed wires, and a metallic tang hung heavy in the stale air. The distant drip of unknown fluids punctuated the silence. 

Nan and I should have seen it, the glint of steel in the shadows, heard the creak of the ship, and known it was a cursed pirate ambush, a trap set to snare the unwary. Our desperation to find salvage for the family’s ship might cost us our lives.

Nan and I have taken refuge within this chamber, hastily fortifying ourselves against the imminent threat. Armed with mere four-millimeter flechette nitro gas pistols, we're painfully aware of their inadequacy against the formidable armor worn by the pirates. We glimpsed their imposing armor as we sprinted away from the encirclement of our defenseless Scotsman scout ship.

Unlike our adversaries, who are clad in nearly impenetrable heavy power armor, Nan and I are in powered, heavyweight, non-armored salvage working spacesuits. Suitable for routine salvage operations, they offer scant protection in a skirmish against heavily armed foes.

Nan's resolve is unyielding; she refuses to allow either of us to fall alive into the clutches of the pirates. I have an intimate understanding of her determination, knowing full well the horrors that await women captured by these ruthless marauders. The fate that befalls the unfortunate souls of women who become prisoners of pirates is a grim reality we both comprehend all too vividly.

Although this chamber maintains pressure, Nan and I remain encased within our spacesuits, refusing to trust the stale atmosphere within this derelict vessel. Despite my suit's assurance that the air is indeed breathable, our years as seasoned deep space salvagers have instilled a healthy skepticism in us. We've learned firsthand the perils of unquestioningly trusting the environment within abandoned spacecraft, understanding that unseen dangers can lurk within the very air we might inhale.

This chamber, with its barren interior, provides no shelter. Dents, scratches, and marks etched into the bulkheads hint at past use and the presence of equipment or fixtures that someone removed long ago. The echo of ancient activity reverberates silently within these bulkheads.  

Nan and I scanned the cramped compartment, the dim light of our suit lamps reflecting off cold metal. Each creak of the ship, a muffled sound against the silence, amplified our anxiety. I imagine a faint metallic tang hung in the air as we ran our hands over the walls, seeking any sign of an escape.

The clamor outside swells, a cacophony of shouts and unseen things, while the banging against the hatch sends shuddering vibrations through the cold, steel chamber. 

Nan and I silenced the harsh crackle of our exterior comms, leaving only a low-wattage whisker comms laser between us. Outside, the amplified, distorted voices of the pirates, a grating, electronic screech, clawed at the airwaves. Their initial pleas for surrender crackled over the air, a familiar, unwelcome sound. Silence fell before threats, a chill of fear prickling the skin, followed by hateful diatribes about what they planned to do to Nan and me, each word a fresh wave of dread.

We watch, breath held, as the actuator wheel spasms, a frantic dance at the door's center. Its metallic groan fills the air with each futile jolt our exterior microphones capture. Nan, eyes sharp, jams our cold, heavy salvager pry bars into the wheel, the metal scraping against metal, halting the pirate's assault.

However, our respite is short-lived as a crimson glow seeps through the metal, heralding the ominous arrival of a cutting torch. With a menacing hiss, the torch ignites, its fiery beam slicing through the bulkhead and door frame with relentless determination. Showers of sparks and molten metal erupt into the air, casting a chaotic spectacle around the besieged entrance. The imminent breach of our barricade makes our hearts race.

Nan reaches into her gear bag, retrieving a high-intensity nano-thermobaric grenade with calculated urgency. With practiced precision, she flicks off the safety, her gaze briefly meeting mine as she silently mouths the word "sorry," a fleeting acknowledgment of the grim necessity of our situation. Depressing the arming button with a steady hand, she triggers the ominous device with an ultimate sense of grim determination.

"Lieutenant de Hilte? Sir, I think you’d better come up here."

Amidst the grim aftermath of the brief, brutal one-sided skirmish, Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Cosimo de Hilte emerges from the assault shuttle, a resplendent figure in his pristine red and white Mars Federation Navy heavy powered armor. With measured steps, he navigates through the debris-strewn passageway towards the spacer, his path frequently intersected by the pirates' riddled, lifeless, heavy power armor-clad corpses.

Undeterred by the macabre scene, de Hilte advances toward Boatswain's Mate Third Class Guonçalvez, who kneels amidst the chaotic aftermath of the battle. The cutting torch, once wielded by the fallen pirate, now lies abandoned at her armored feet, a silent testament to the brutality of the recent confrontation. 

Careful lest he soil his immaculate suit of armor, de Hilte kneels beside the kneeling petty officer. He sees that her red and white power armor is scuffed and stained in places, and that several armor sections need replacing upon their return to the ship, and this disgusts him.

“What's going on, petty officer Guonçalvez?”

“Sir, I believe something terrible happened inside that room.” 

“How?”

Because you stupid fuck, I was standing over there when that pirate got ventilated; she thought. While you were safe back in the shuttle.

“Sir, there was a sudden thump that shook the whole derelict.”

“I felt that.”

Surprised you felt anything sitting in the shuttle.

“Sir, my visor flashed, the digital display briefly spiking with a crimson hue as the temperature inside the room surged. A brief wave of intense heat, a searing pressure, pressed against my face plate as the air in there crackled with the unseen energy.” 

“Anything else?”

“Yes,sir. The bulkheads buckled out unexpectedly. The hatch is now so warped that we have no choice but to cut our way in. Unless whoever is inside that room is in superb heavy armor, I don't believe we'll find anybody alive."

"Damn, Boats, that’s not good," de Hilte remarked, his gaze fixed on the scene. 

No shit, you dumbass, Guonçalvez thought. Fuckin’ ring knocker prig who doesn’t think his shit stinks.

As de Hilte watched, the thick black smoke, which his armor identified as acrid and choking, poured from the jagged tear in the metal bulkhead. It billowed into the pressurized inflatable emergency fire and rescue vestibule, the sound of escaping air hissing ominously.

"Enlarge that hole enough so we can send a snake drone in there and look for survivors. I'll let the Old Lady know. If nothing else, at least we wiped out these scum," de Hilte commented with resolve.

If Captain Lekke hears you call her the Old Lady again, she will thrash you fucking good the next time you are in the dojo with her, Guonçalvez thought. Captain Lekke is a three times all-Mars armed forces martial arts champion; you’d think that would be enough for the dumb ass to avoid challenging her.

Guonçalvez’s gaze falls upon the mangled remains of the pirate who wielded the cutting torch. A chilling pool of rapidly freezing blood surrounds the pirate’s once formidable heavy armor, now torn asunder staining the cold metal floor. The lifeless figure starkly contrasts with the frantic activity that had ensued mere moments ago. 

Nearby, the remnants of the dead pirate’s futile endeavors are evident in the scarred bulkhead, where her cutting torch had mercilessly gnawed at the metal before being interrupted and ultimately silenced.

"Sir, Commander Alchidai is going to be pissed at us. You just know she is going to raise hell with the Skipper that her Marines should have done this landing and assault."

"Boats, we'll leave that for the Old Lady and the XO to deal with. Marine Country is still quarantined with that nasty intestinal bug they caught while on liberty at Tartarus Station.”

“Glad I missed that.”

“Me too, Boats. Me too.”

“I wish the Marines had taken this assault.”

“I agree, Boats. You know Alchidai’s a decent sort–for a knuckle dragging Fleet Marine. She knows her Marines are in no shape to attempt any kind of assault.” 

“Poor bastards. I hope they get better soon.”

“I hope so too. You are correct though. This should have been a job for Alchidai’s Marines, not us space squids. Just get that damned hole enlarged and have Spacer Hreystihöggr run a snake drone in there.”

“Yes sir. On it sir.”

"I'm going outside to get out of this jamming field to contact the ship."

Try not to gag on the XO’s cock, Guonçalvez thought.

She makes sure she is on the correct private comms channel so de Hilte doesn’t hear. “Hey Baby Doc,” Guonçalvez asked. “How’s Kreszentia?”

“Naama’s going to need a new left arm and both legs,” Hospital Corpsman Third-Class Lubanzi replied. “Anna, we’ve already got her back on the ship and in medical cryostasis until we get back to Mars. Naval Hospital Nobuyuki on Adalfarus will patch her up and have her back on the ship in no time.”

“Doc, nobody else was hurt?”

“Just minor stuff. We lucked out; these pirates were not expecting an assault from the rear, and didn’t have their weapons ready. I just spent three years with the Fleet Marines, and earned my Fleet Marine Force warfare device the hard way.”

“So you know, then how lucky we were.”

“I sure do, Anna.”

“Alright Doc, I'll talk to you later. Bjorn’s here with the snake drone.”

“I’ll be there in a minute Anna with two drone stretcher bearers. I heard what you told de Hilte. I hope someone survived.”

“We’ll know in a few minutes, Doc. Bjorn’s cutting a larger hole now.”

After the larger hole was cut in the bulkhead using the pirate’s plasma cutting torch, all three spacers watch the drone’s optical feed as it slithers across the deck toward two burned and twisted space suits.

“Doc, one confirmed dead, and one critically injured but she is fading fast. We need in there right fucking now. Bjorn make a hole and make it big.”

“Copy Boats,” he said.

She watches as he pulls coils of explosive bulkhead breaching entry rope from his kit, applying it to the warped bulkhead in one generous piece. After Hreystihöggr ensures the detonator is in place and active, the three sailors and two drones retreat to a safe distance.

“Fire in ze hole!” Hreystihöggr shouted on the general comm circuit before triggering the detonator with his neural net. After the powerful blast wave rolls over the armored sailors, Corpsman Lubanzi is the first through the jagged hole in the bulkhead closely followed by the two stretcher bearer drones.

One drone scans the surviving casualty and immediately slides an emergency medical cryostasis cylinder over her.

“She’s pretty fucked up,” Corpsman Lubanzi said while kneeling beside the emergency cryostasis cylinder.

“Is that your official diagnosis Corpsman Lubanzi?” Asked Lieutenant de Hilte from the edge of the jagged hole blasted in the bulkhead.

“Uh, yes sir. She was seconds from becoming a corpse like this other woman." He points to the dead woman in her burnt and mangled space suit resting on a stretcher bearer drone.

Lubanzi points at the survivor. "Her space suit is shredded, she’s got third degree burns on more than 60% of her body, numerous broken bones, pulverized internal organs, and a whole collection of minor injuries. She only survived because the other woman’s body partially shielded hers.”

“Do we know who she is,” de Hilte asked.

“No sir. We might not know her identity until we get her back to Mars and get her healed up.”

“Let’s return to the ship,” de Hilte said as he walked away. “I’ll warm up the shuttle's engines.”

“Doc, do you need help,” Guonçalvez asked.

“Nah, the drones got it. Got the meat popsicle and the corpse on the drones. Be back on the shuttle in a few minutes.”