Hull Damage by Timothy J. Meyer

Author:Timothy J. Meyer [Meyer, Timothy J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: aliens, bounty hunter, spaceship, outlaw, space pirate, pirate captain, crime action, pirate adventure, laser gun, pirate ships, nemo, bad space
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Moira Quicksilver elects never to be shot in the neck ever again. First of all, neck wounds too often proved nearly impossible to properly bandage mid-gunfight, judging largely from their apparent tendency to unrepentantly spew copious quantities of blood, regardless of how much manual pressure one exerted on them. Secondly, the entire esophageal region was perhaps a little too close to her vital carotid artery for Moira to comfortably receive gunfire. Lastly, an injured throat rendered her virtually mute and therefore, incapable of issuing commands to their outnumbered, outgunned and effectively surrounded handful of pirates.

A serendipitous shot during the opening salvos of the ambush had claimed a skirting, finger-deep puncture on the margin of her neck – a harrowing, if otherwise benign, wound. Moira could certainly treat such an injury, should she ever find herself safely returned to the Lover's medbay. Danbonte’d struggled to dress the wound as best he could, but the more pressing concern remained that Moira required one hand planted firmly on the left side of her neck to continue staunching the blood flow, leaving her only the one hand to return fire and forsaking Righty to swing fruitlessly in its holster.

Unjustly separated from its mate, Lefty seeks sweet vengeance against the next Insurgent Company bastard to wade through the exploding underbrush, surrendering one shot to the belly of his powered plate and inserting another into the right goggle of his chemguard mask, succinctly concluding his military career with an awkward tumble into the bushes. His running mate, another identical humanoid commando with snowy-camouflaged body armor, a portable respiratory pack and an unslung standard-issue assault rifle, emerges seconds later and a yard west. Lefty rewards him for his hair's-breadth tardiness with a pair of complimentary bolts, the first in a kneecap and the second in the elbow of his trigger arm. His yelp is muffled beneath the triple-prongs of the chemguard mask and he slumps atop his comrade, a pair of hand-wrapped gifts for ktotari birds or worse. The coast fleetingly clear, Moira darts from cover to adjust her position, ten degrees southwest.

Rampant chaos usurps the Scream-Weed camp. Alternating waves of blaring gunfire and armored shock troops deluge the suddenly besieged settlement from a veritable blockade of entrenched positions. Ejvora crabs, awoken from their slumber by the bedlam unfurling about them, uproot themselves and stagger confusedly about the encampment, impervious both to errant laserfire and the occasional burning tree swaying off their backs. The trio of Imperium driftcraft circumnavigate the clearing, peppering pockets of troublesome resistance with their vehicle-class artillery. Slodzen, in mongrel packs of five and ten, tug free ankles and throats of those few commandos luckless enough to ill-aim their weapon's final shots. A resultant smokescreen of consumed ditrogen castoff, the gushing contents of a dozen uncorked gas grenades and legitimate smoke contribute bloodshot eyes and general obfuscation to the developing mayhem. What little Baziron remain unswatted by the compounded swatches of aircraft and infantry crossfire stage an urgent resistance, but sharpened sticks and

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