The Ghoul crouched his huge frame behind a pair of large metal containers, fortuitously devoid of anything explosive, occasionally peeking around cover to bombard anything exposed with a hail of fifty-calibre bullets. The two pirates at his side, one bearing an assault shotgun and the other a pump-action grenade launcher, followed his suit.
"How many are left?!" the marauder lord bellowed over the racket of gunfire.
"We're still going strong, sir," the shotgun pirate called back. "Watch out!"
The Ghoul swung his energised hammer behind him, striking a shouting levy armed with a knife charging at him. When the hammer struck, the plasmatic core inside of it detonated with a tonitruous crash, the unfortunate levy's entire torso disintegrating into haematic powder.
"Good!" the Ghoul roared. "Press forward!"
He leaned around the container to fire once again, shooting streaks of heavy-duty munitions to tear any levies that exposed themselves to pieces. At that moment the Ghoul's eyes wandered to a platinum glint on the opposite side of the hangar. There he sighted the all-too familiar white armour and cinnabar cape of this dreadnought's lord and master – the Hound of Sokolova, making his way across the hangar with a frustrated glare, apparently oblivious to the battle transpiring in his immediate vicinity.
When the Hound disappeared behind one of the gunships, the Ghoul noticed the levies and knights running back through the doors. The turrets in the ceiling snapped back into their protective covers.
"Boss, the knights are retreating!" the grenadier pirate stated the obvious. "The knights are retreating!"
At that point the Ghoul simply could not help himself.
"CHAAAAARGE!!!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs, vaulting the container with the agility of a cat as his glowing eyes embodied his greed. "Bring the Hound to me! I want the Hound alive! Every other man for himself!"
The other pirates saw their leader sprint toward the doors and declare his order, and promptly followed suit, bursting from their cover spots as a thunderous war cry filled the hangar. The shouting and hooting of this tide of berserk pirates, before any of them could ever reach the doors, found themselves drowned out by an escalating screech. The raiders gradually drew to a halt in their tracks, at which moment the hangar was overloaded with the great roar of jet engines firing up.
They all witnessed one of the attack craft lifting off – a gunship painted in the silver and purple of the Iron Knights. Five engines could be seen; two heavy-duty nuclear turbofans at the back and twin smaller, gimballed jets positioned closer to the front. One extra jet was situated at the back of the rising craft for the purposes of stability. Two sets of monopropellant thruster blocks along the craft's hull hissed and blew white gas as they fired up. Most worryingly for the pirates by a colossal margin were the arrays of missiles, rocket pods, bombs and gun pods lined up along the wings, a single rotary stormcannon turreted up front and a twin gun turret positioned at the back of what was now clearly a ground attack gunship.
"Oh, this was a stupid fucking idea..." was all the Ghoul could utter as he watched the Hound in the cockpit depress his thumb on the rudder.
A mere fraction of a second segregated the Ghoul's final statement and a hurricane of high explosive armour piercing shells sweeping across the breached sections of the hangar. The pirate king popped like a balloon as a shell struck him square in the gut, showering red viscera across the floor. The rest of his pirates were quick to join him, even those hiding behind the ample cover around the hangar. The gunship's cannon was designed to tear enemy tanks and mecha to pieces; cobbled armour represented little in the way of obvious problem.
The thunderous roar of the attack craft's stormcannon overpowered the terrified screams of the pirates who had survived the first devastating sweep and were now running for their lives. The turret swept back like a scythe through a wheat field, tearing the other aircraft to shreds and reducing whatever invader crossed its angry path to a puddle of blood and guts in an instant. Fuel canisters erupted in front of the retreating pirates, blocking their exit with bursts of blazing fire. Ammunition trolleys detonated with echoing blasts, showers of flesh-ripping shrapnel and plasma burns adding to the general chaos and carnage that had now overwhelmed the hangar. Whatever pirate still survived would not so for long.
At last, Ryan had whittled down every last life sign that had taken shape on the gunship's heads-up display. The guns finally died down, supplanted by the rumble of the gunship's jets. The war machine drifted over the pools of corpses and gore it had created under Ryan's dreadful command, before it flew forth into the massive airlock. The huge blast door clasped shut as the attack craft passed through and the other one at the far end of the airlock began to peel open, the iron dragon en route to the dwarf planet of Ceres beneath it.
Meanwhile...
As the Hound had fought his way out of the throne room into the hangar, so too did Frost and White. Amidst the chaos Frost had overpowered one of the levies and taken his rifle, throwing him over the ledge into the trophy chamber below and gunning down two others. The weapon looted from the beaten levy was certainly no M224, but considering the weight of that combat rifle, this was perhaps a blessing. It had been some time since he had even encountered a Sturmgewehr Mk.17 assault rifle, let alone held one – they were standard issue for Martian general infantry during the war, having since been supplanted by the more powerful StG-20. Nevertheless, the 6.5-millimetre rounds it spat out were more than sufficient in dealing with the comparatively under-equipped and ill-trained levies aboard the ship. The true challenge had been in fighting back two armoured knights and a gun turret; here the rifle's underbarrel grenade launcher had come in handy.
Presently the pair were situated within one of the dreadnought's viewing decks. An empty and heavily dented power helmet clattered down the hallway as Frost kicked it; the helmet had come from one of the two recently deceased knights that had tried to stop Frost and White only to be greeted with a 30-millimetre grenade to the torso.
"These Knights aren't so tough..." White remarked as she held her own StG-17, picked up from the second levy that Frost shot to death.
"Don't get sloppy now," said Frost. "We're not in the clear yet. We're almost below the throne room."
White was about to comment on why Ryan would even need a throne room when a glint caught her eye. Upon turning to face a comet-like trail emerging from a hangar on the dreadnought, she spotted a gunship shooting forth from within. The craft pivoted upward and burned to the right, joining a convoy of bigger vessels, bearing straight wings and powerful rocket engines affixed to the tips of each wing. All of them had conducted powerful deorbit burns and were gliding toward the surface of the dwarf planet below.
"That's got to be Ryan!" she stated. "How the hell can we get to him now?!"
"You're the smart one here – figure it out!" Frost bellowed after witnessing the same.
White borrowed a moment to study some of the passing landing craft. "Those dropships are VC-20s," she soon announced. "Old Martian Kosmodesant issue. My old man used to keep a few of 'em around, mostly for spare parts."
"Did you ever fly any?" Frost turned his head and asked.
"Only once," answered White. "I crashed it ten minutes into the flight."
"That's as good a hope as any," Frost was already on his way through another doorway. "To the hangar!"
The door split open to bid the fighting two entry to the next part of the ship. There they saw three dead levies, bullet holes crossing all around their shapes, and a haphazard cacophony of bootsteps resounding from the neighbouring corridor. Expecting additional enemies the two readied their weapons and trained them on the corner; they were greeted not by knights nor even levies, but raiders from the Ghoul's band dressed in their patchwork armour and carrying old rifles. Six of them emerged; spooked initially by the appearance of two strangers, they were quick to realise that the newcomers were no threat.
"Hey, you're not Iron Knights!" one of the pirates, bearing a
hockey mask and mohawk, called out to the pair as he lowered his weapon. "You've gotta be those two kids we were told about."
"Where's your boss?" Frost asked the second after the pirate introduced himself, his gun now lowered.
"He's dead," the pirate answered with near indifference. "The Hound nailed him and his goons hard. Crying shame, because he wanted you alive."
Frost glanced to White who the speaking pirate pointed at. Her eyes grew wide as hatred could widen them and her breath was drawn as if an extra twenty kilogrammes had been added to it.
"Oh, now it's personal..." she seethed through her teeth.
"Get in line," Frost growled before turning to the pirates. "You lot! With me!"
"And who the fuck gave you the right to boss us around?" protested one of the pirates at Frost's order.
"I just did," White stepped forward and proclaimed. "I've done a lot more for my dad's outfit than you have, buttboy. And now he's dead. I'd say I've got a decent claim to the leadership of the Ghoul's band. And I say we're going to take the bastard who killed him to the dog pound!"
"Hold your horses there, cowgirl!" the pirate protested again. "You ran away from us during the campaign against Bloodbeard! I think out of everyone here, I should le-"
He was cut off by the stutter of gunfire before slumping to the ground, his chest covered in bleeding holes like a slice of cheese. The other pirates reached for their own guns on instinct, only to recognise the futility of any such effort before their comrade's murderer.
"Anyone else got a problem with me taking command?!" White snarled as the muzzle of her rifle billowed smoke.
Not a word was yielded by way of answer. Only five shaking heads.
"And rightly so, I should think!" The grin White then set loose was riddled with menace. "Now let's go find that hangar. Once we do, you can loot whatever you want from this spacegoing junk heap!"
"That's one way to take command of a bunch of brigands..." Frost thought aloud as he followed White and the pirates back the way the latter came. White had already judged that if they knew the Ghoul was dead by the Hound's hand, they would know where to lead her and Frost to the hangar.
They rounded one more corner to come face to face with five levies who had arrived from where the attackers were going. Thanks to Frost's care and attention with complex boarding manoeuvres all seven of the raiders had taken cover behind walls and some of the metal decorative buttresses; the levies were still stood by the door dumbfounded as they recognised their latest company.
"That's Frost!" one of them cried out.
"Take him out!" commanded another.
"But the Hound said-"
"I don't give a fuck what the Hound said! He's left us for de-!"
The protesting levy's voice was severed by a bullet through the throat.
The hesitation of the knight levies became their downfall. Three of the militiamen were cut down one by one with no tall order, two shot to pieces as they dashed for cover in shock. The one who made it to shelter from the tide of bullets had no hope of firing back, such was the raw might of the attackers' suppressive fire. Before long all but a solitary one had been slaughtered like cattle, the steel floor running red with the blood of the deceased. Frost wasted no time in approaching the survivor for questioning, drawing the ever faithful handgun he kept by his side on a permanent basis.
"Where's the next hangar?" he demanded of him, the same one who had protested killing Frost. "The one where your commander just left!"
"Fuck you!" the levy spat. "You've got no idea what's- AEGHCK!"
He was interrupted when Frost grabbed his throat into a vice-like hold. "Where is it?!" the captain roared into his face.
"Two corridors down..." the levy struggled a response, finger pointing to the desired location.
"Good." Frost turned his handgun to the levy and cocked the weapon.
"What are you... OHFUCKNO-" the confused levy uttered one terrified response before Frost pulled the trigger, splattering the contents of his skull everywhere.
~
True to the late levy's word, the hangar was not far from the invaders' present position. When Frost, White and the pirates entered the hangar through the same entrance through which the pirates had fled, what they beheld was raw devastation. Only a sporadic collection of aircraft had survived the blaze that had submerged the chamber and now died down, with the rest persisting only as twisted, greyed out husks of ashen metal. Much of the floor itself was black, scarred by lashes of fire, while a barbecue stench hung in the air. Both Frost and White were all too familiar with this vile smell from their heydays; they would have been fools to presume that the meat that had been cooked in these flames was pork or beef.
"This is the part where we bug out," the pirate Frost had addressed earlier announced.
"You're not coming with us?" Frost asked.
"Oh, no..." the pirate shrugged. "We've got a ship full of gold to plunder, and it's all ours now that Ghoulie's bitten the dust."
"Suit yourselves," shrugged Frost. As the pirates left, he turned to see White on her knees. In her hands she held the broken half of a skull-shaped mask, scorched to the point of bare recognition. The congealed blood where the Ghoul had fallen denoted that his fate had been nothing short of brutal and perhaps even horrendously painful.
"Oh, that bastard..." she whispered to herself, head sinking into the mask as her face twisted into darkness. "That damn motherfucking son of a bitch!"
Her rage-fuelled mourning was interrupted when Frost lay his hand on her shoulder.
"That's my bitch you're talking about, and for the record we were married," he stared into her eyes and affirmed with a face of granite. "You can grieve later. We need to catch Ryan first. Then we'll worry about something like revenge. Focus on the mission, White."
"Alright," White straightened out her face and wiped a tear away. "Any of these things operational?"
"What about that one?" Frost pointed to one of the surviving craft. Sheltered away from the bulk of the firestorm behind a metallic wall peppered with shrapnel and scorched by flames, the same type of five engined gunship as the Hound took off aboard. Left relatively unmolested by the inferno, the craft retained its formidable armament and even its paint job.
"That's not a VC-20..." White stated with a greedy glint in her eye. "That's a VA-35 Walküre. A new type of assault gunship. I heard about it from Mags."
"You still know how to fly it, right?" asked Frost.
"I remember the Martians had standardised control systems to make it easier to train pilots," White stated, eyeing up the machine before her. "In theory, yes."
"Good," said Frost, already making his way to the craft. "You fly, I shoot!"
Upon the pair boarding the gunship and sealing the crew compartment shut, White took a moment to memorise the control panel of the gunship before her. At least, White had assumed that the Martians used standardised control systems; some of the buttons, levers and interfaces remained murky to her. With great care she instigated the ignition sequence, pushing a button on the top side and another on the left and right. A whining crescendo filled the cockpit as the engines began to spin to life, White easing on the throttle as the vessel jolted upward before settling into something resembling a hover.
"White, are you sure you know how to fly this thing?" Frost began to feel trepidatious.
"Sure enough..." White pushed the joystick forward, only for the gunship to tip downward, make a sudden prograde lurch and nearly strike a craft wreck.
"WHOA-kay, that's different!" She grabbed the stick and pulled it backward in a panic. The attack craft reared upward and slid backward as it drifted across the hangar in a confused slalom as if being piloted drunk.
"White, get a fucking grip of the thing!" Frost felt compelled to intervene with a bellow.
"What do you think I'm doing!!!" White shrieked as the hangar spun counter-clockwise past the armoured window, the engine scream growing ever louder as she attempted every trick
she knew to stabilise the machine. Then she saw a small button labelled 'STAB' – presuming 'stability assist', she pushed it; the carnage was soon to stop.
"Alright, alright – I think I've got it now!" White affirmed, her statement attested by the engines whining back to normal status. The recusant gunship was now fully tamed as it drifted into a steady hover.
With gentle pushes of the throttle White persuaded the Walküre to float toward the hangar blast doors. The newly obedient craft performed as White desired, and the first door opened with a thunderous clank to bid the vessel exit. As the Walküre snaked into the launch tunnel, the first door clasped shut and the second began to peel open; White could feel the gunship being sucked out of the decompressing airlock as it floated toward the depths of space and onto the battlefield ahead.
Leaving localised artigrav field... Entering vacuum of space... Gyroscopes activated. Zero-gravity control is now enabled.
"Don't distract me, woman!" White seethed at the voice speaking to her from the gunship's console. "Now let's see what we can do with this piece of shit!"
With that she pushed down hard on the throttle – the gunship's engines turned up to full with a tonitruous rattle and pushed the craft into the void. Without the artigrav field to pull the Walküre down to earth, White found it more responsive to her commands, a matter that she confirmed as the thruster blocks on the side performed the hard labour of pitching, rolling and yawing the craft for her.
Frost noted how the red targeting reticle for the cannon followed his eyesight, the gun itself training on the holographic circle on his helmet's visor. Each target he looked at gave a detailed readout on the opposite side of the visor to the reticle, marking friendly targets in green and enemies in red – or the other way around, in the case of this particular hijacked gunship. At each craft ahead of the gunship large and small, a coloured outline highlighted them.
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