Episode 2

Leroy Time

“Yeah, let’s go for it,” I said, locking one onto my Cerberus M-92 carbine as Jock mounted the second on his. “What’s up with your bucket, Park?”

Park shrugged as he put his helmet back on. “Chips are shot, armor is sound,” he declared. That meant his targeting and infostream was dead. Not what you want from the team sniper.

“Got a plan?” Jock said.

I thought back on the configuration of the cargo bay. The entrance was about twelve meters long, check-in window and office door on the right at about four meters, then you reached wide-open bay except for the chunky support columns. Great big interior, flat metal plate floor, lots of crates towards the back, lots of open space in the middle. A direct assault was out. Our frags would take them out easily, given their lack of armor, but first we had to figure out where they were.

So, we had to make them show their cards. Jock had the same thought. He thumped Park on the shoulder and tapped his helmet to his. “Hey cowboy, you got no targeting, so you’ll have to draw their fire.”

Park shrugged and clicked the lock on his bucket. Usually he was the squad’s preferred shooter, but even the best sniper couldn’t spot and shoot faster blind than an enhanced shooter. Once they honed in on him, our comps could give us locations. And it wouldn’t be too dangerous. He had his armor, we’d be right behind him, and these guys were just crew, or at most, glorified security guards. No sweat.

“Just watch out for the projectile guy,” Jock said to Park, as if that were possible.

We edged up to the door and I looked inside the bay. View was clear.

“Alright, it’s Leroy time,” Jock told Park.

Park nodded, set his Cerberus on full auto, wide dispersal, then sprinted like a madman into the bay, his battlesuit juicing his steps and turning him into a death-dealing grasshopper. A split second later, we followed him. Park was well in front of us, bounding quickly across the bay. Jock and I split up and took up positions by the wall on either side of the entrance. Plasma zipped towards Park from the left—and then a projectile weapon shot from the right. 10 o’clock, 3 o’clock. Jock and I fired almost simultaneously, as our auto-aiming AIs triangulated the incoming fire sources for us.

Thump CRACK! Jock’s grenade exploded less than 10 meters from me. I heard the tinkle of ceramic shrapnel shattering against my armor. The grenade had torn apart a crewman to my left; he seemed to be still breathing so I put a bolt through his head to put him out of his misery. The job is the job, but I don’t like to see people in unnecessary pain.

Park had rolled to the deck by a stack of barrels just before the explosions. Now he stood, back to the cargo, looking side to side for any remaining danger.

The bay was silent. If there were any targets left, they had the good sense to quit firing.

Jock and I cased the edges of the room, backs to the walls. Shelving towered overhead in front of me. My heart thumped; I was still amped. I cross the bay to see where my grenade had popped. Yep, the guy was most definitely dead. The ceramic frag grenades were designed for in-ship use; they made short work of flesh without penetrating metal. No use killing the bad guys then getting sucked out into space. On the ground next to the crewman lay a civilian-grade plasma carbine of cheap Gorwagese manufacture. “Two more down in here, Sergeant Hanley,” I said. “You find the slug-thrower yet?”

“Slug-thrower?” came a thick smoker’s voice, “What dumbass had a slug-thrower?” It was Squid. He’d been a captain in the Navy. But in the company, he was only a master sergeant. By all rights, he should have been staff officer, but he’d gotten sick of paperwork and decided to get back into the action when he went private sector.

“Clearing cargo bay, Sarge,” Jock said. “We hit some minor resistance here. Nothing we can’t handle, over.”

“Roger,” Squid replied.

A minute later I reached the back of the cargo bay, meeting Park. The computer gave me nothing to target, so we waited. A minute later, Jock arrived, holding up an ancient slug-thrower.

“Stupid kid,” he growled. “Had a hunting rifle. Something called a Maywin. Maybe T7 at most.”

I glanced at the stats board. 13 kills were now registered.

“I got two,” Jock said, answering before I said anything. “The other one wasn’t armed. Just a techie.”

He spoke into his transceiver. “Sergeant, we’re all clear here. Just engineering left.”

“Roger,” Squid answered. “The bridge is secure. We’ve got her about tied up here, then we’ll come down and clear engineering with you.”

We took up defensive positions in the room, just in case, and maintained them until he arrived. I was pissed about my elbow. This contract should have been a cakewalk. Damn pop gun!

Every contract was different. Sometimes we got to loot, sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes we got bonuses for knocking out vehicles or beacons or whatnot, sometimes we were just playing babysitters for scared corporates or politicos with more cash than security knowhow. Those were salary days. Safer, sure, but not as good for the old retirement fund. This one we got paid all right, considering how easy it was. Kill the crew, take the ship, wait for rendezvous.

“Hey,” I asked Jock, “we get cargo salvage on this one?”

“Naw,” he replied. Jock had seniority and a few more years in the company than me. He heard stuff I didn’t. “Though you could probably take the slug-thrower as a souvenir.”

“No thanks,” I said, tapping the hard foam on my elbow. “I’ve already got one souvenir I didn’t want.”