Seeing the primitive ship break in half, Vos'Ar felt no relief or predatory satisfaction. The corsair leader felt only all-consuming rage and irritation as his gaze fell upon the tactical terminal.
His guys were supposed to tear this flying shit apart in seconds, but instead, this flimsy little ship, moving on practically fart power, like an asari after mating with three krogans, struck back in a way that not even planetary defense forces could! Worse, these natives had cost him so much… They hadn't left a single ship undamaged!
"These one-eyed freaks will answer for everything! I'll rip their lungs out through their spines, but first, I'll scoop out their eyes with a blunt spoon. What's left, I'll feed to them first, then to the varren, and after that, the workkas will finish them off, so they can occupy the state destined for them by the universe – shit of shit!" the privateer thought maliciously, wiping blood from his face and feeling his eyes, one of which ached badly. The pirate had hit the terminal hard during the detonation of an enemy torpedo.
Slowly, like an automatic turret, Vos'Ar turned to his first mate. His face was blackened with rage, his eyes bloodshot, and his voice gurgled like an overheating reactor on the verge of explosion.
"Take the boarders and go to the ruins of this dump!" he hissed, squeezing the assistant's throat so hard he coughed. "Do whatever you want, even shake your ass on a pole like an asari matriarch, but by the end of the day, I want a carpet of their flayed skins in my cabin and a bowl of ripped-out eyes on the nightstand!!!"
The first mate was choking, but Vos'Ar didn't let go. His fingers dug into the spacesuit so hard that even a workka wouldn't hold onto food with such ferocity. The assistant kicked his legs, dangling them in the air, trying to escape on pure self-preservation instincts and immediately carry out the enraged boss's order.
"If you can, it's your luck. If you can't, I'll stretch you over the nose of my cruiser through your nostril so you can see your own dick near your face!!!" the privateer yelled, spitting. "And if you manage to cost me more by somehow smashing another ship against this garbage, I'll beat you so badly that krogans, drunk, will mistake you for a female and fuck you all together, one after another!"
The last words thundered so loudly that the surviving pirates in the bridge froze.
"Go!!!" Vos'Ar roared, throwing the first mate towards the exit.
He tumbled across the deck but instantly got up, understanding that delay meant death.
"Immediately, Captain!" he yelled, already running towards the hangar.
Having vented his anger and accelerated the executor with a firm kick, he surveyed the hushed bridge of his flagship, inhaling the sweet scent of sweat and fear, a maniacal smile appearing on his face.
"Restore order, you workka sluts," Vos'Ar said, still smiling. "Quickly!!!"
Having finally calmed down, the privateer leader began to think, "How did I end up in the crotch of a krogan prostitute, metaphorically speaking, with my head buried deep in a loose hole?" Taking a deep breath, he addressed VI:
"Analyze enemy weaponry," the pirate said, watching his drones pursue the primitive machines… though, what primitives? He couldn't have been beaten like this by natives.
"According to preliminary data, the main caliber fires low-temperature stabilized compressed plasma, which partially ignores kinetic shields and interferes with their operation," the onboard computer reported.
"Plasma…" the pirate drawled, as if tasting the word. "Like the geth?"
"Not at all. The variant used by the geth is more destructive on single impact, whereas this model exhibited higher rate of fire, accuracy, and range."
Vos'Ar pondered. The world became a little brighter. Now the financial losses didn't seem so significant, and even profit loomed somewhere on the horizon. The question remained: keep the weapon for himself or sell it to the Hegemony? The former promised long-term profit, the latter – quick money.
"Next," he demanded.
"Torpedo armament also differs from that used by known races. With a single carrier, the warheads were varied. Some created interference and released decoys, others carried a laser acting as anti-aircraft cover for the salvo, some created a shrapnel cloud, while others delivered the first strike, acting as additional cover for stealth torpedoes. Onboard systems managed to detect them only in the red zone, allowing only ten percent of the projectiles to be shot down."
"They're not so primitive," Vos'Ar muttered grimly.
"Agreed," VI concurred. "Their shields are built on plasma curtain technology, which indicates a good understanding of quantum processes. Propulsion systems are nuclear engines, several times faster than known analogues for ships of this class. The ship itself was maneuvering, avoiding projectiles. According to preliminary estimates, if the enemy had three pennants, our squadron would have been destroyed with an eighty-five percent probability."
"Good thing they only had a single specimen of this shit…" the privateer mumbled, switching to the general communication channel. "So, gentlemen! Fortune favors us! All ships, activate jamming devices! I want not even a squeak of an asari whore's orgasm to escape this pathetic system!!!"
Having said this, the pirate captain turned and headed towards the exit from the bridge. He decided to combine pleasure with business and personally descend to the base of such interesting creatures. "Organize a safari. Relieve stress with a couple of kills. And I need to keep an eye on my freaks…" Vos'Ar thought.
"Alert! This is not a drill! All personnel to stations according to battle schedule! Alert…" the message repeated over and over.
The Seventh Fleet was preparing to depart for an as yet unnamed system, where the enemy had attacked a peaceful expedition without declaration of war. The "Collective" seethed with barely contained anger and rage. Sailors and officers, conductors and space marines were furious. What they had prepared for had happened – war with an alien, alien to the Soviet citizen, mind!
The Fourteenth Fleet, in full strength, was already flying at afterburner speed to punish, crush, and destroy the enemy. The Seventh and Eighth Fleets were to arrive later, taking a detour.
Four thousand seven hundred and seventy-two pennants, including three fleet bases, rushed into the blackness of space to show all proletarian might, responding to blow with blow! The Fatherland wiped blood from its broken lip, clenched its fists, and prepared to deliver a blow to the gut.
On all planets and colonies of the USSR, sirens wailed. Citizens orderly descended into underground shelters. Schools, kindergartens, hospitals, maternity hospitals, and other significant civilian facilities were completely lowered underground on special elevators.
Decorative panels moved aside, revealing turrets. Every city intersection became an outpost. Thousands of scaven raised numerous guns on the surface. Warehouse doors opened, and small arms and equipment were distributed.
Factories fell silent, having received new technocards. Forty percent of all industry, by decree of the Conditional Council, was redirected to meet the needs of the army and fleet. Mass loading of military databases to all connected populations was being prepared as part of general mobilization.
Aspect Defense soldiers were recalled from leave. All military units were transferred to round-the-clock duty.
CERBERUS was preparing to dispatch sabotage units at the first order as soon as the coordinates of the enemy worlds became known.
Four companies of the "Argentum" special forces division had already moved to the combat zone along with their commander.
Forgive? Oh, no! The country was not going to wipe away the spit in its face. There would be no kind, all-understanding Samaritans. The enemy awaited a demonstrative thrashing!
"Comrades! Today, at ten o'clock Moscow time, the enemy attacked a peaceful research expedition without declaration of war! Our country is already preparing to strike back…" the government broadcast began on all mass media…
"Comrade Captain…" Hartmann winced at the voice of his senior assistant, snorting, trying to get rid of the smell of ammonia in his nose.
"Roll call!" the captain of the "Sevastopol" barked, not yet fully conscious. Answers began to ring out, and the officer finally looked around.
The bridge was de-energized. "Reactor damaged or missing!" the ship's captain noted mentally. "The deck underfoot isn't vibrating. So, the engines are also disabled. Hmm… the main guns are still firing. Judging by the taste in the air, I was unconscious for about twenty minutes. Oxygen for another forty minutes, if there's no depressurization. Coolant, both primary and backup – finished. Consequently, extensive hull damage," Valdemar made his grim conclusions.
"Report," he gave a sharp command, his expression darkening further. Ten crew members who were on the bridge had died. More than half were wounded.
"We have half of the cruiser left, Comrade Commander," the senior assistant replied grimly. "Breaches all over the hull. The list of dead is being clarified, but certainly everyone who was in the hangar and the second section. Judging by the flash, the engine room was detonated along with the entire fuel reserve."
"The enemy?" the 2nd rank captain clarified, guessing the answer.
"Ceased fire and is trying to disable the remaining anti-aircraft defense batteries. They probably want to take us by boarding while we're still warm," the assistant smiled wryly. "Assault ships are trying to drive them off, but it won't last long. They've launched their aircraft."
"Status of the torpedo bay?" Valdemar asked after a moment's thought.
"The units are disabled. Ammunition is intact," was the reply, but the officer added, "Marines have already started mining. I suggested letting them get close, letting them disembark, and then detonating the rest of the ship."
"Prepare for boarding, comrades. It was an honor to serve with you. Before death – all are equal," Hartmann said resolutely, tearing off his epaulets.
"Before death – all are equal," the remnants of the crew replied just as resolutely, repeating the same action. Now there was no division between officers and sailors…
"Stubborn bastards," the captain of the raider "Thresher Maw's Dream" admired, watching his gunners try to shoot down the agile enemy machine. The primitive machine spun like an asari after mating with three krogans, occasionally managing to shoot down a drone or two that had seriously latched onto it.
"Their programmers aren't getting paid for nothing. Unlike our cross-eyed drones," his first mate agreed. "It's trying to get to our asses for the third time, even with our machines as a bonus. And their construction is funny. The drone carries drones!!!"
"Uh-huh, only they're angrier than the ones with broken bones," the captain gritted through his teeth. "We've been messing with five machines for half an hour because of their gifts. The first mate from the flagship 'Ravager' shot himself to avoid them. And I feel like our one-eyed boss snakes will tear us apart and feed us through our asses…"
"Well, we shot down two carriers," his buddy shrugged. "And we'll shoot these down too. I want to see their insides. It's definitely not krogan squirming in there… Well, I told you we'd shoot them down!"
The assistant pointed at the downed enemy machine, which could no longer be called primitive in simple language. If there were about thirty of them, they would have torn the raider apart like a real man tears away an asari's virginity.
The craft lost its engine and right planes, caught in a burst of fire from their raider, spinning like a workka on a drug trip.
"Here's your sample. Take it, just don't shit yourself or cum in your pants," the raider captain said, more cheerfully than before.
He wanted to add a few more barbs, but didn't have time. The enemy craft was enveloped in small explosions, separating the upper part from it. A flash of jet engines – and a humanoid in a spacesuit slammed into their viewport.
"Khur'tash!!! These are inhabited fighters!!! May krogans fuck me without lube! What kind of crazy person would voluntarily get into such a dick?!" the ship's captain was surprised, to say the least.
"Looks like a quarian," the assistant replied indifferently, watching the enemy cosmonaut try to hold onto their raider. The air rushing out of the holes in his suit hindered him. "And the blood is red."
"No, like an asari. A specific one, damn it!" the captain stated authoritatively. "Helmsman, throw this bitch off my ship! It's not a teenage dick to ferry whores for free…"
The captain's reprimand was interrupted by a dull thud, forcing everyone in the bridge to turn their attention to the cosmonaut.
"JBYM!!!" The hand in a glove, thick even to the sight, struck the armored triplex of the bridge with a knife again.
"Damn it!!! They're completely insane!!! I've seen a lot, but even legionaries haven't done this!!!" the captain blurted out, collapsing with laughter, along with the crew. The laughter stopped after the next blow, when the knife deeply penetrated the thick glass. "Helmsman… you pus-ridden bastard!!! Throw her… the fuck off!!!"
The captain even began to stutter, not believing his four eyes. A humanoid. With a knife. Poking. His. Raider. And succeeding.
But the helmsman didn't have time to do anything. The cosmonaut ran out of oxygen and hung on the handle of his weapon, twitching a couple of times before death. Even his dead fingers, contracted in post-mortem rigor, refused to let go of the blade.
A moment later, the bridge was blinded by a flash. A shockwave from an infantry grenade hit the glazing. When the pirates recovered, only a mangled knife and a stump of the hand that hadn't let go…
"You don't like our bread and salt," Artem said maliciously, hearing another angry tirade in a language he didn't understand. "So excuse us, we only have what we have…"
"Good thing I took plenty of attachments! The modularity of the equipment is simply miraculous! It wasn't for nothing that I suffered and tested these light suits," the captain thought.
Now the aliens were happily studying the Soviet folk pastime called "partisans in a wooded area." The expedition and most of the guards had left the outpost in small groups as soon as the crew of the cargo ship died, a death that cut like a piece of glass through everyone on the surface. The situation had been practiced in exercises and was mandatory for study, so everyone knew what to do.
The aliens showed caution, landing a little away from the outpost. To their misfortune, Artem foresaw this, having calculated several convenient landing points. Therefore, one of the gang – and the operative could no longer call these freaks anything else, having seen them with his own eyes – lost a foot, falling into a simple trap made of a cartridge, a cunning bent piece of iron, a pit, and cardboard.
His friend, who rushed towards him and lost vigilance, got an extra hole between his four eyes. The two cat sisters, Irisa and Risa, who remained with the operative in the ambush, were a well-coordinated sniper pair.
While the edge of the virgin forest was being dug up by random fire, the "Argentum" fighter, along with the shark Mo, crept up to one of the shuttles unnoticed and mined it with an explosive charge so that the remaining guard didn't notice. The four-meter sentient shark was an excellent explosive technician, so the explosion was glorious, like a May Day fireworks display.
"What do we do next, Shep?" Mo asked the human.
"Judging by the screams, they entered the outpost and saw… nothing," Artem said slyly. "And that's painful and offensive. The carriers made a good bonfire… Burned well! Now they'll try to search, find a couple of tripwires, and go completely berserk. Which is what we need. We can move out in about ten minutes. Risa, Irisa – you'll lie in wait on the hill and shoot anyone who tries to run. Mo – cover my ass."
"This is all interesting, of course, but what's the plan, Commander? The abundance of eyes on them is unnerving!" asked the shark, emphasizing the last word. Even with all the therapy, he was trembling and enraged by the hairy faces of these four-eyed creatures, which he could barely contain.
"It's simple. I'll just meditate," Shep added, seeing a shadow of understanding in his comrades. "I'm not the best at polymer manipulation, but my teachers were among the best. So the ground will literally disappear from under the aliens' feet."
"Fucking forest. Fucking savages," grumbled one of the regular pirates.
"You'll choke on your teeth if you don't shut up, you bulging-eyed freak," the squad overseer quietly promised.
The six didn't answer him. "The Ravager is lucky! He sat his ass in an armored vehicle and drove off! We have to feed the local beasts and beat it on foot through the forest! I didn't sign up for this!" the young man thought, who had gone on the raid to earn credits for a wedding gift. It was all about that, and it was worth it. His parents had agreed – so the wedding would happen!
"I'll buy myself a house somewhere on Logasiri, get a couple of big-assed slaves to keep the household in order and give me something to look at, and we'll live. We'll also get land for a farm. There!" the young man dreamily calculated his business plan again, frowning. His bowels strongly indicated that he needed to get rid of their contents.
"Boss, I need to shit!" he immediately reported.
"Shit in your armor," the overseer simply replied. "Or can't you even wipe your ass without slaves? If you fall behind, we won't wait."
The young pirate no longer heard him. He burst noisily into the bushes, trying to quickly pull off his pants.
Absorbed in the process, he even forgot about his weapon, let alone caution. And who, in their youth, thinks they are mortal? Therefore, he didn't notice how the branches of the tree under which he sat down to do his great deeds came to life.
Suddenly, flexible shoots wrapped around his neck, and a thick, sharp branch entered where he was polluting the pristine nature.
"A-a-a-a!" a scream escaped him, turning into a whimper as the piercing branch began to grow inside him, forging a path through his flesh for its branches.
The gang that burst in a little later, attracted by the screams, froze at the sight of the terrible ikebana. Even rapists, maniacs, and murderers were moved by this scene – after all, their accomplice was still alive.
The Watcher stepped into what he thought was a puddle of water. Had he been attentive, he would have noticed that there were no other traces of water in the vicinity. He didn't even have time to squeal before the puddle nimbly crawled up his leg, instantly enveloping his body. Transparent tendrils yanked his hands up with his weapon, and an unknown force turned him towards the stunned cutthroats, pressing the trigger against his will.
A sudden burst mowed down three. The remaining ones quickly riddled their boss, even despite a good shield.
Twenty meters away, a polymer crossbow sent a sharpened stake flying, scattering into a puddle of splashes. The piece of wood, thrown with all its might, pinned two at once.
The squad's biotic wanted to summon his abilities, creating a barrier, but received a bullet to the head and chest, falling onto the grass without summoning his might.
The survivors wanted to run, but two slabs of earth crushed them like a tree leaf between the pages of a book. A moment, and polymer spikes pierced the trap...
A minute later, a gray shadow in a light CERBERUS suit removed the bodies from under the heaved earth, returning the soil to its place. With a kick, the operative covered the bloodstains with dirt, nodded with satisfaction, and disappeared into the forest thicket.
The Seventh Fleet was cutting through light-years. Ten more minutes, and the USSR ships would unleash all their desire for retribution on the enemy…