By SCSPIEKER - Dec. 31, 1969 TURN 22: Stocking Up Booths and Patwardhan quickly understood the properties of the aliens' acid blood. Firsthand knowledge of its fast acting corrosive prepared them for the trouble with the inner hatch. Once it was sealed, the medtech and warrant officer Leon checked the corpse. No question now about what those inner teeth were for... extra jaw, whatever you call it It punched holes through flesh and bone, drawing out chunks of juicy meat. Everybody grabs their comm equipment at once. Healy's on the wire to Burnett. "...Dead civilian? Ssshhhittt... Sergeant, we confirm your status. On our way. Stay where you are and keep us updated." Healy deliberately disobeys orders, moving through a doorway in the direction Alex Gonzales had indicated the plumber was last seen. With revolver pointed out in front of her, she turns into a darkened corridor running along the length of the ship. The shadowy hollows seem to move with her own trembling breaths, her senses on full alert. It's deadly silent. At the far end, a short flight of stairs leads downward. A sign nearby indicates the sanitation maintenance one level down. In the tight hallway, she can see there's no way Gonzales could fit through here in that cargo exosuit. The powerloader's heavy steps echo through the flight deck like bass drums behind the snare-taps of Booth's crutches, as the smartgunner hobbles along toward the armory. Through a set of doors, quick left turn, through another set of doors on your right and there you are. It only takes a rack of pulse rifles and lockers full of M38s and M56s to make a marine's eyes water. He takes a nervous look around before choosing his armament, not entirely confident there couldn't be more of those things hanging nearby. Patwardhan and Leon leave Alex with nobody to talk to, as they head off across the deck. "I had to pop the airlock to attempt a rescue," says Leon, by way of explanation. Patwardhan quickly discovers that it's also an apology. "If there were any of those creatures in the forward section, they might have been ejected during rapid decompression. The dropship was directly across from the lock. Assuming they somehow survived the vacuum conditions, I'm afraid I'm responsible for bringing them here. I can't think of any other reason that one could have reached the Gaines." The medtech, having led the android to a flight of stairs climbing to the administration levels, feels his hand close firmly around her bruised left arm. "It's dangerous to stay here, Patwardhan," he says seriously. "Let's regroup with the others and get back to the space station. While we still can..." Alex stands in the powerloader, suddenly very alone except for the bloody remains of the insurance rep and the still-smoking section of the floor, now pitted and cut by a swath of that thing's blood. Over the patch into the central comnet, he picks up some of the police activity on Rodina. "Umbilicus reached my men are in position wait for the second team before proceeding affirmative, we're holding" The disembodied voices, combined with the dismembered body, begin to make him feel very alone in the vast, haunted ship. Patwardhan posts: "Leon, I need to talk to Brother to see if we have a firing solution on the Korea," she says as she pulls away from him and slowly continues up the ladder. "Its as simple as that. Now, if blowing up the Korea means that Rodina will go up with it, then I'm willing to table this option for right now. But the only way I can correctly calculate the ordinance yield necessary and blast radius will be with Brother." She looks back at Leon and rolls her eyes at the synthetic's solemn expression. "Yes, Leon, I know, that my actions are driven by an emotional response," she says with a note of annoyance at what he *hasn't* said. She continues climbing. "If human beings didn't have dramatic emotional responses to threats, then there wouldn't be any human beings," her voice raises in volume and intensity. "Its this kind of flood of chemicals in the brain that has kept us out of evolutionary cul-de-sacs. I know enough neuro-chem to understand specifically what chemicals are rushing through my brain at this moment, and especially this time of month. So, DON'T. f- --. WITH. ME!" Aishwarya takes several slow deep breaths and clenches her jaw in an obvious attempt to calm down. "Leon," she starts again, this time with a deadly calm edge to her voice, "If you have something to interject aside from stating the obvious then please do so. The plan is: a) talk to Brother, b) blow up the Korea without destroying ourselves or Rodina, c) go home. Am I missing something?" Leon actually looks stunned. He stands still long enough for Patwardhan to head up the stairs away from him. After a moment, he follows her. "I'm on your side, Doc, but this just isn't an option we can consider right now," he tries. They reach the top of the stairs, the medtech checking to either side with pistol in hand. Patwardhan slinks along the corridor, cutting across to another flight of stairs, past closed doors and complex electrical gear, the jamming core, home to the sophisticated electronic countermeasures devices. Small lights wink in the darkness, set into access panels and readout screens up and down the hall. Leon's voice drops to a whisper. "You know you don't have access to the launch codes, and Brother won't give you approval. And even if you tried to somehow secure a launch, I can't let you do it. If there's any chance someone might still be alive on the Korea then we have to attempt a rescue. Those are the regs. Are you listening to me?" Leon's looks at her, the slightest edge of a challenge in his eyes. "What do you mean I'm not authorized to give firing orders?" she says turning and looking at Leon. "I'm the senior most survivor of this fiasco, and you're going to tell brother that I am in command now. You know as well as I that the chance of there being survivors on the Korea is next to zero. Remember that it had multiple hull breaches, and oh, there was that little matter of monsters that ripped limbs off. Brother'll have to give me the launch codes. Won't he?" With this last question, the cracks in her armor begin to show as her argument is finally running out of steam. "Tell you what," she says with a note of resignation. "If Brother doesn't think the situation merits giving me emergency launch power, then I'll simply get him to give me a targeting solution for shuttle based ordinance. It won't be as clean a kill, but I'm sure that it'll do the job in a pinch." "Hey Boothsie," she yells into her comset, her attention suddenly diverted by an idea. "Grab us some cold weather gear so that we don't freeze our asses off like last time!" "Just try to take a minute to think about what you're doing, that's all." Leon tries to calm the medtech with his compassionate yet emotionless pleas, but the medtech's gone too far to turn back. The android stands at the top of the stairs, neck twisting to check the dark shadows of the hallway, watching Patwardhan as she moves forward, step by step, carefully measuring her strides, keeping her eyes open. The pistol feels heavy and awkward in her left hand. Past one panel of winking lights. Stop and look around. Nothing else moves. Now she creeps up about halfway to the Mind Bank's doorway, and stops to look around. Leon's gone. Maybe he just went back down the stairs. A drop of sweat falls from Aishwarya's chin. Her comset crackles with Healy's whispering voice. "Private Booths," she rasps heavily. "I'm in the locker room with one of these things. I could use a little help... and some directions." Faintly, from a good distance, three thudding sounds reach her ears. The hallway is quiet and dark, talking in its own silent computer language. "Oh, one must have been blown onto the shuttle during the Korea's decompression," Patwardhan mumbles in a sing-song satire of Leon's explanation. "Dammit, Leon. I suppose I can't fault you for not having instincts, but your programming should have been better." She knows that he can't hear her subvocalizations, but that's never stopped her from speaking her mind. She's not really frightened or concerned with the news of more of the aliens on board, just growing increasingly annoyed. Perhaps those painkillers she's been popping have been numbing her moods as well as her throbbing wrist. She idly wonders whatever happened to her stash of Korea bud, and regrets loosing the flare gun since it would only have taken a little modification to be very usefull. Alex stayed in the powersuit just long enough to get tired of hearing the echo of his breathing, which took about three seconds. Shutting down the suit, but leaving it ready to go without a long warm-up, he unlatched himself and jogged lightly after the Marine on crutches. That guy was headed for the armory, and that's where Alex wanted to be. He'd be damned if one of those things was going to catch him unarmed again. As he entered the room, he let out a low whistle at the weapons on the wall. With barely a hesitation, he crossed to the pulse rifles and pulled one out, trying to remember the checklist for prepping the weapon as he grabbed at the clips. "Been a long time," he muttered to himself as he rubbed at his sore jaw with the back of the hand holding the clip. While familiarizing himself with the pulse rifle's unusual center of balance, and the two-footed stance that the corps drilled into him, Alex catches his own reflection in the polished surface of locker. Bloody mess, and a space missing between his lower teeth. His dental plan is the last thing on his mind, however. As Alex checks the load readout on the rifle, Booths throws open a couple of those shiny lockers, revealing M38s, predecessors to the new M56 smartguns and a nostalgic sight for the former marine. Incinerators, scope rifles, combat shotguns, 9mm automatics... now this is more like it! Alex hefted the weight of the pulse rifle, comforted by its bulk as he moved over to where Booths had opened up the weapons locker. Grinning at the implements of death-dealing, he picked up one of the 9mm pistols and two clips, slamming one home and chambering a round before setting the safety and dropping it into his right hip pocket. The one extra clip went down into the same pocket, and he zipped it up before turning to Booths. "Hey, uh, Private," he said, "think you could find any more of those commsets? I think I should have one if I'm going to help look for Adams, don't you think?" Eyes lighted with the spark of vengeance, and not a little psychomania, Booths crutched himself along. He cycled the armouries door, and then threw the crutches into a corner. He gritted his teeth as his mutilated foot decided to 'scream' in protest. Heading straight for the locker with the antiquated M38's, he did not pay attention to the tech until the man picked up a Pulse rifle and crooned over it. He grunted. He started grabbing gear as the first transmission squawked in his comset. "Whats the matter, Aish? The thought of a little cold giving you the willies?" Booths grabbed a shotgun, threw it on a nearby bench, two incinerators followed, as did a couple of nines. He limped his way to the far side of the armoury, looking for jumpsuits and cold weather gear. Not to mention the ammo for all those shiny manufactured weapons of death. He didn't turn towards the tech when he asked his question. "Over here, Gonzales. Heading there now." He looked over his shoulder, "Oh and grab me a rifle would ya. Grenades are in that locker." He waved in the general direction of the locker that held the M38's. Healy made the next transmission, and Booths could tell that she is close to shitting herself. "Head back to the cargo bay, Healy. From there take the central way out, turn right at the first intersection and walk right on past the head." He shook his head at civilians in general. "You'll hear us rummaging a few steps after that. Booths out." He opened up two seperate lockers. One held spare jumpsuits, combat togs, boots, and thicker OD's. The other held the marines' spare combat armour. He turned to the tech. "Ok Gon, help me with some of this shit. I need heavier gear and we'll both need armour, so buck up, and welcome to the Corp." The smile he smiled had all the makings of a shark that had just smelled blood. "Right," nodded Gonzales as he slung the pulse rifle strap over his shoulder and grabbed one of the larger M38's. They were heavier than he expected, but he braced it against his shoulder and found an ammo bag, which he then began to stuff with grenades from the cabinet that Booths had pointed out to him. Alex smiled as Booths opened the cabinet that held the armor and other gear. "Nothing new to me," he said with a smile that was only overshadowed by Booth's fierce grin. He laid down his cargo and moved to stand beside the somewhat mangled Marine, reaching in for some of the thick ODs and pulling them out. "And call me Gonzo. When I was in the Corp five years ago, that's what they called me." He said this as he reached in and pulled out the armor pieces, pausing from this only to ask another question. "Holsters?" Already it was clear that this Booths was not a talkative man. Outdated by the newer generation of M56s, the M38 heavy support rifle nevertheless delivers a computer-accurate grouping of explosive- tipped 13mm rounds. Tough and overweight, it measures a full meter in length and must be carried with both hands. The onboard targeting computer is primitive compared to today's weapons. A monocle on a simple rubber headband fits over the eye, connected by a cable to the M38. Because it's self-guiding by means of an adaptive rotating balance, the smartgun comes across as jerky and demanding of its user, but also tends to line the bad guys right up. It's fed by a 160 round magazine. Healy slowly makes her way down the corridor towards the stairs. She feels something pointy grab on to her jacket from the side... it must be one of those things! She spins, her horror escaping her as a scared sqeeck. She brings her revolver to bare on the offending bit of machinery that had snagged her jacket. "Christ... I'm not cut out for this shit." Deciding she no longer likes the idea of searching for Adams on her own, she retraces her steps back to the nearest place she can access the ship's inner intercom. "Adams... it's Sergeant Healy here, I'm on board the Gaines with some Marines, make your way up to the armoury in the main bay on the double. Over." She closes the comms and falls back against the wall, stopping for a moment to breathe deeply and wipe the sweat from her brow. "God I hope these things don't understand English." Her moment of respite over, she hefts herself off the wall and begins heading back to the armoury. Healy passes back through the flight deck on her way to the armory. The yellow powerloader stands vigil over the dead fat woman. Healy's seen dead bodies before, but this is somebody she knows. Heather Green. Pretty name. Now look at her... Cop reactions kick in and Healy suddenly sheds her fear. She's a cop. Time to get the bad guys. She heads off through a set of doors. She can't remember which direction Private Booths was headed, but she seems to have taken a wrong turn somewhere. She enters a locker room. Showers off to the right. Past the rows of lockers, cryotubes, about a dozen or more, sit like open eggs in a neat line along the back wall. Pale standby lighting gives off only enough ambient illumination to define the sharp edges of equipment, walls, benches between the lockers. Healy's about to turn back when a noise reaches her ears and chills her bones. Beyond the lockers, somewhere in the unseen complex of cryogenic sleep capsules, something heavy just set down on the floor. Not dropped, not fallen, but softly set down on metal that complained beneath the weight. She realizes that those things are three meters tall, and probably weigh a quarter ton. And those sleep tubes are only about 10 meters away. As soon as Healy realises what made the sound images of the insurance rep's mutilated body flash back in to her mind. She gasps and holds her last breath, falling back against the wall quickly. Healy lifts her revolver towards the source of the sound, pulling back the hammer in readiness for any black shapes that may seek to jump on her. As quietly as she can she reaches up to the comset the marines handed out before and fingers the transmission control, hoping that she can be heard she whispers into the receiver, "Private Booths, I'm in the locker room with one of these things... I could use a little help... and some directions." Healy's left hand reaches down to her belt and produces the small service torch. Without switching it on she moves her left hand up under her gun hand, supporting it and pointing the torch in the direction of the would be attacker. Healy knows she should run, or maybe hide and hope that she isn't spotted, but part of her, the detective part, doesn't want to leave any stone unturned. "Stubborn bitch" she chastises herself as she flicks the light on, not sure if she turned off the trasmit on the headset. Healy's light holds straight ahead. It moves directly into the light, showing a mouthful of dripping fangs. Nightmare stuff. The gun goes off in her hand. Smoke, noise, and the alien disappears in a cloud of cold vapor, as the heavy rounds demolish pieces of cryogenic equipment in the far end of the room. It only takes a moment before a jet-blasted white mist fills the room, but Healy catches a split- second glimpse of the alien retreating behind the lockers just a few meters away. She makes a run for it. In the armory: Booths must've missed it. Did that cop bitch just say she was in the locker room with one of those things? Before he can ask, gunshots go off. The armor will have to wait. As the unmistakable sound of heavy calibre gunshots rings out in the ship, Alex dropped the piece of armor he was holding, and then quickly decided to exchange his heavy-as-hell M38 for a pulse rifle, which he handed to Booths. In retrospect, he didn't know why he had even grabbed the big smartgun. He couldnt' use it, and he'd be damned if the crip could either. He moved to the door, the ammo bag swinging from his shoulder as he shrugged *his* pulse rifle into his hands. "f---. f---. We going to go help or what?" he asked, not bothering to control the parts of his voice that were half 'let's go kick the s--- out of them' and half 'let's run home to mama.' He waited for what the Marine would say, clearly submitting himself to Booths' authority in this matter. Patwardhan transmits, "Booths, can't I get anything done without everyone else getting in some sort of jam?... I'm on my way down, you better have a flame unit for me, or I'm gonna get pissed. It may be a good idea to find out exactly what kind of passengers we have on this tub..." "Blow me." Came the reply when he hurtled himself out the door. A part of his mind detached itself, and floated back over the discarded clothing. Hmmm... I'll have to put myself on a demerit for that. "Oh, Boothsie, you wrangle me an incinerator and you'll get what's coming to you... and then some." Aishwarya purrs, but still with a mocking tone. She continues her doubletime down to the armoury, trying to make the pain in her hip work for her to keep her alert and on her toes. "I'm in corridor B15, heading your way. What's the position of the hostile?" She pauses for a brief moment, "And don't say right in front of you, because you know that's no help." Patwardhan races back along the processor-lined hallway, thudding down the stairs as the comm crackles. "...second unit has reached the airlock... we're moving inside... someone reported gunfire?... sir, I think we've got a situation here... Healy do you copy?... halfway up the umbilicus..." Patwardhan hits the floor running, running through the open passage into the flight deck. There sits the dropship, obvious as can be. How could Leon have brought two of those motherf---ers here without seeing something? she wonders. The acid burns on her hip scream and itch, the once-supple flesh now wholly corroded, pink, pitted and oozing. The chore of movement is a terrible agony, and before she's crossed halfway through the hangar, she's forced to slow her pace to a awkward, leg-swinging stroll. She can hear raised voices and a lot of movement coming from the armory, but except for the open set of doors at the far end of the hangar, the unfolding drama is blocked from her view. She can't help but notice that Leon is no where to be found... Healy hurrys out of the locker room, waving the Taurus in her right hand behind her. As quickly as she can she run through the corridors trying to follow Booth's directions. She transmits her situation once agin, "Private! I'll be with you soon, I missed the f#@&er, but I don't think it's following me." Booths doesn't have a hand free to take on the M38. Gonzales just dumps it on the counter and heads for the door. Booths gives him a go take care of it why don't you nod of his head, opening drawers and cabinets in his search for more firepower. Alex tastes blood on his lips and gums as he moves out into the hallway. Healy's footsteps can be heard coming up from the left. She turns the corner, the massive Taurus revolver in her hand, huffing and terrified. Alex steps toward her automatically, checking to see if she's okay. She covered with white stuff! His heart sinks. Another one of those aliens is right behind her, two meters back, moving almost dog-like on arms and legs, crawling to the wall like a fly. Goddamnit she's in the way! Shoes went flying, Booths grimacing in pain as the shoe strafed his very injured toe. "f---!" He balanced himself, just, and began to throw off the rest off his clothes. He shrugs himself into the Cold weather BDU he acquired for himself. Cold sweat covered his forehead, but his dogged determination forces him on. So one of the big bad motherf---ers was out there, harrassing the cop. Well, this'll be her chance to see if she is mean enough to survive the big bad universe. The Comset went fying onto the bench as Gonzo headed out to help Healy. He felt the creature then. An oppressive precence, outside. Booths grinned ferally. He pulled out a pair of combat boots, which he fitted over his injured and un-injured feet. Then came the last three pieces of equipment he really needed. A Marine issue helmet, leg armour, and...his flakjacket. It was covered in dust and smelled evilly. It held the memories and sweatstains of several sorties. A ragged bio-hazard was stencilled onto the back of the flackjacket. It would help keep his side stiff, and hopefully provide some help against the evil that lingered outside. This took precious moments, as did his rifling of his discarded clothing for the pistol, butterfly knife, and miscellany. The comset was replaced as he switched on the com gear installed in the marine helmet he had on. His lights held a strange light as he limped his way towards the rack of pulse rifles. He had ruled out the M38 afterall. It was too heavy, its support harness would likely break open the stitches on his side, and the recoil would floor him. A mag slammed home and the LCD display on the side read 99, a full load. Two grenades he rammed in on the way out the door. Alex half-froze as he saw the thing running along the wall. ON THE WALL!? his thoughts screamed at him, but old, almost forgotten training kicked in and he brought the rifle up to his shoulder as he sighted in on the creature. He moved to the far side of the corridor as he did so, making an opening for Healy to run past him without hitting him, and to also give him a more open shot on the creature. When Healy spots Gonzales, a little spot inside her calms. He doesn't appear to be reacting, maybe the thing isn't following her. She keeps running towards him though, just to make sure. Gonzales is like the metaphorical finish line in the helish race Healy has just run. As soon as Healy passes Gonzales, she slows herself down, but the loud report of his pulse rifle instantly tells her that all is not alright. She spins, bringing her Taurus around to face whatever might be left of Gonzo's target.