The cargo ship and its escorts rolled into the supply berth with lazy bursts from their RCS. The hulking transport nudges carefully inside the cramped hanger, nearly crushing several cranes and spotlights. The small fighters, meanwhile, were sliding skillfully into their respective positions. Clamps slid out from the industrial craft and took hold of the flooring, anchoring the goods-laden ship into the landing bay. The great doors, flush inside the walls, began to rumble closed. As their grating filled the station with vibrations, an airlock on the far side of the bay cycled to let the dock crew through.
The cranes and conveyors of the hanger ground to life, a spider’s array of gantries and arms extending out to the cargo ship. Spreading out around the bay, the station workers initiated the process of detaching cargo pods. The cargo ship let out a jet of steam, and from underneath the hull, a hatch opened. Down strode two-dozen spacers, clad in the heavy protective suits of long-term haulers. Sleek orange armor plates and snaking tubes of their re-breathers hid their features, and their steps carried the obvious weight of activated mag-boots. Some carried duffel bags, while others held welders and cutting tools. The lead figure waved to the dock crew, and motioned to the pods along the exterior of their ship. The white-helmeted head of the foreman nodded once. Help was appreciated.
The seven-or-so members with the bags gave waves to the other crew, waltzing towards the airlock with the relaxed confidence that became an opportunity for a much-deserved shore leave. As they disappeared through the door, the others joined the station staff to operate the unloading cranes and disconnect the cargo containers from their sockets. Spindly robotic arms twitched over the hull of the hulking ship. The myriad of technicolor tubes slowly migrated from their nesting spaces to the pallets of supply trolleys lined against the back wall. Each was clamped, stamped, tagged, and settled into place with the practiced precision of professionals. Several black-suited figures had appeared on the side of the hanger, ducking under drifting pods and floating over the gyro-scoping arms of loading bots; the crews of the escort vessels, observing to ensure the process was conducted to code.
With two of the final containers now in the grips of the loading arms, the dock foreman sent his signal to the crane operators. Their fingers dancing with well-oiled familiarity, the dock workers sent the armatures ratcheting down their tracks to the end of the bay. The fighter crew duck in unison.
One of the heavyset freighter crew kicked off of the hanger hull towards the foreman. He tapped on the man’s shoulder lightly, seeing as how there were no established radio channels between their suits. The foreman gave a small wave to the rest of the workers and turned, following the hauler along when he gestured to inspect the cargo containers. A sharp click of the heels and their magboots deactivated. The fighter crew ducked again as the two floated overhead, a lumpy orange mannequin and a pasty white test dummy. The rest of the hauler crew finished up their duties, giving cursory acknowledgment to their station-based counterparts.
The two free-floaters reached the newest cargo pod, and the freighter crewmember gave indication to the way it was positioned. Rather than stacked on top of the rest on the trolley, this and three others were positioned laterally on the floor in front of them. Terribly non-standard. There was room for them, too. The body language of the spacer was clearly annoyed as he gesticulated around. The foreman shook his head, puzzled out a response. None of his men had done this, he was sure. They were highly trained. He shrugged, turning back around to wave at the crane crews to re position the pods. He jerked, a numbing sensation spreading out of his chest suddenly. He looked down, having some issue moving his head. A crude piece of metal jutted from his chest-plate, clouds of air steaming around it. It twitched, and was yanked right back out of his body, the horrible leaks in his suit propelling him up into the hanger bay space. Around the bay, station personnel found themselves under similar assault, either slashed open with industrial cutting tools or having their helmets melted by torches and welders.
The freighter jockey shook his helmet-clad head as he picked at the blood now frozen on his knife. After a few moments on unsuccessful maintanense, he rolls his shoulders slowly in exasperation. Taking one step back ,his fist hammers agaisnt the cargo container next to him. One, Two, Three. Nothing. Then, a horrific vibration into the floor. The door of the container hisses and then shoots off its hinges, the three other pods next to it following suit. Green orbs float in the darkness. Heavy thuds echo in the metals of the station, and the figures inside the containers come into the light. Plated armor suits, with joints whirring and hissing. Angular metal edges, and hideous faceplates, only of a flat surface and seven harsh green optic ports. As the freighter crew retrieved folding submachine guns from their utility packs, the cargo stowaways hefted their own no-nonsense weapons. Heavy, blocky rifles with edged bayonets. Grapple hooks. Grenade projectors. Nods exchanged, the airlock became the target.
As alarms began to sound across the station, the fighter craft’s engines spun up. It seems the advance team was well on their way. Myriad station had some visitors. The light ran over the emblem on the soldiers pauldrons, marching towards the port to the station proper. A silver star, surrounded by twelve gold stars. On the other side, a green skull.
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