The interior of the Katarn-class boarding shuttle was darkened and it felt very much alone in there; one person exhaled and someone else inhaled at the same time. So many bodies in a space, nerves jangling more than a little, tended to raise the temperature and add humidity enough to be noticeable.

Meanwhile, in the rest of space, the Intruder and the Freedom Fighter, two CR90 frigates, moved to engage INV-648, a Vigil-class Corvette providing escort to ships in a large convoy. It was hardly alone; there was a Ton-Falk Class carrier in the area as well providing TIE support for the cargo ships as they hypered in.

Intelligence had provided them with a pinpointed rendezvous location based on a huge amount of data culled from planetary traffic reports and other numbers-intensive stats that they then interpreted and tried to apply to a larger scheme. Rebel Intelligence had a certain advantage in this, because they'd picked up a number of experienced beings that did this during the Clone Wars for the Republic that were put out when Palpatine took over and began his pro-human policies. His loss. Alliance's gain.

The upshot was that Intelligence was actually pretty good at working the same job but from the perspective of the insurgent this time, though they also had some ex-Seps in the ranks. Both sides had been manipulated, it seemed, to allow the likes of Vader and the Sith to take over and run the show, and perhaps the rueful recognition of the way both sides were shafted into a war to cull the Jedi was what kept politics from flaring up in squad bays and small bases and even operating cells all over the Alliance.

In this particular case, intelligence also identified that the INTN-842 would be hypering in at a given time and the probable point, and the idea was to take the ships as they hypered in -- mostly using the talents of the Death Jesters, a Y-Wing squadron with a rather flamboyant name composed of ex-smugglers and swoop jockeys that enjoyed applying the same cunning used in outwitting authorities to how to hit the Empire. The squadron commander outfitted one of his better pilots with ECM pods in place of photon torpedos and used that to guide much of the squadron through the asteroid field near INTN-842's hyperspace arrival point; when it jumped in, before it could fire 72 TIE fighters out of the tubes, the Y-wings were swooping in to torpedo the badly-shielded ship and its deadly cargo. Meanwhile, Intruder and Freedom Fighter were engaging INV-648 and, as appropriate, splashing the few TIE's that got out of the carrier with rapid blaster fire from the anti-starfighter batteries.

But the idea was to disable, ideally with ion blasts from the Y-Wings once they finished the primary jobs, INV-648, because it was a newer class of ship and the Alliance wanted to see the inside of it. Also, the mission was to boldly take out the convoy escorts and then take down the convoy as the ships arrived, masquerading as Imperial Navy. The Y-Wings would hide once more and crew from the Intruder would operate INV-648 as a prize ship and masquerade as the Empire long enough to let the Y-Wings disable the ships as they arrived a few at the time.

Captain Hud, back at Vanguard station, devised this plan while consulting with Intruder's experienced pirat--err privateer crew, using other intelligence data. The schedules were regular, that's where Intelligence found the weakness, because the Imperial Navy's sector commander was enjoying his quiet sector, and the Alliance decided to go hunting once it had the resources assembled to do that.

Freedom Fighter had a crew, but not a boarding party. They'd been killed in some operation off in Mos Jalasa and had not been replaced. That was why 1st Platoon, Echo Company, 2nd Battalion Liberators was packed into a shuttle, rocked only slightly by return blaster fire by the intended target as it got past the firing arcs of several blaster turrets, ready to board. Their job was to take the ship from the inside. Blasters and dets, tight corridors.

There was a thump as the boarding shuttle's nose locked onto the hull of the shuttle, picking what the schematics said was a maintenance hatch that would get them into the tunnels of the lower decks and let them move rapidly through the system-- the plan called for securing the engines and the bridge at the same time, and then working to sweep the rest of the ship. They were coiled, a fist ready to swing, but they had to sweat it out while the rest of the task force was actually fighting their part of the battle. If the plan got this far, it was a good thing -- or a bad thing, since they were boarding a ship and that was one of the uglier types of fighting you could encounter.

Besk couldn't help himself, he was shaking as the shuttle gave a loud shudder and the torches in the nose started up -- you could tell by the sound of the power converters humming throughout the thing. The Katarn-class shuttle was designed for boarding actions and it was built into the Intruder, a CR90 corvette built by pirates for piracy -- lots of engines, lots of electronic warfare, and a boarding shuttle built flush into the underside. The crew was from Korpo, a planet known for piracy and smuggling in loosely allied family-clan units that took their grudges seriously, and when the Empire went and cleaned out some of their relatives, and not the ones actually doing the piracy, in attempt to deter criminal activity, they decided to take the ship and join the Rebellion.

The ship was made to do this sort of thing, and it had a platoon of Liberators, one of the roughest organizations in the Alliance, tough enough to fight the Imperial Army toe to toe and come out battered, bloodied and bruised but not necessarily unbowed.

Besk was a thick-shouldered sort of guy in a Rebel-brown jumpsuit festooned with the tools of the trade; a blast vest reconfigured for modularity and configured to his sense of ergonomics -- he knew where to reach to get what he wanted when he needed it. He'd dispensed with the helmet in favor of being able to see and hear, which was against regulations in a sense, but he'd spent years on Uslam fighting without one and the damn thing was just too bulky. They supplied them at Vanguard for some inspection and told them to use them, but it was this long thing that got in the way.

Instead, he wore a breather mask. Loss of oxygen in this boarding action was a distinct possibility for a number of reasons. If they decompressed...well, it was all over. They needed skinsuits or actual armor, but they didn't have it and you went to war with what you had, not what you wished for.

The little red light went on in the cabin, which was the signal to stand up and get stacked for the entry. That would be tricky if there were Imperials on the other side. When the light went green, the hatch at the front of the shuttle shot open, and it was Besk and Vannin who were at the sharp end, grenades and blaster pistols in hand. The Liberators weren't the sort of unit to send the new guys in first, even if it was a really dangerous operation. The veterans carried the unit and ran some incredible risks. It was also logical; guys like Beskad were experienced zero-G miners before during their time as guerrillas in a local rebel cell, then they were converted into conventional infantry. Now they were marines, but it was a happy combination of skills that some inspired Navy commander argued for in the first place -- the Liberators were a ready made boarding force, cheaper than training one from scratch. The survivors were merged into one regiment and deployed in platoon and company strength all over the various ships that worked from Vanguard station as raiders, putting out fires for the Alliance and starting them for the Empire.

It all went fast from there; sonic grenades went off, blaster bolts were fired as the veterans led the way first, moving fast and sure to cover each other's blindspots. They'd choreographed this movement before, several of them, in the cargo hold to make sure they had the essentials still down. Once the first chamber was secured, it was a matter of breaking off into smaller units and taking the two most important objectives -- Engineering and Bridge. Speed was of the essence as boots hit deckplates and troopers moved in fast, low crouches, weapons at the ready. These weren't the clean white corridors of the ship that you moved lots of troops down, or took a Senator on a tour, this was the pipes and cables part of the ship, the maintenance access artery system that ran through the entire ship. A small group of fighters had to be prepared for the chokepoints in these dimly lit spaces, ready to fight first, fight fast and fight hard. The upside of that was that they weren't likely to get flanked or overrun easily, especially if they kept moving.

The plan called for 'the element of surprise' and 'violence of action.' That was a nice way of saying, 'fight dirty.' The platoon was fine with fighting as filthy as it had to, if it could minimize casualties and get the job done.

They'd brought extra grenades, Besk made sure to squeeze the supply guys at Vanguard as hard as he could to do it, because he was expecting the tight corridors. Sonic grenades weren't frags, but they didn't puncture hulls or destroy electronics, either. That was pretty important because he wanted to live through this.

The layout was just like they planned. "The belly of the beast," he said aloud, mumbling as he usually did when his mind was occupied. "Hundred meters aft, right turn, fifty meters straight." The numbers didn't make sense when they were blocked out in a far-too-small hangar with cones and electric tape representing the shape of things, but down here in the guts, it was clear enough. Bad guys that way, forward march. If the bumpy ride didn't get one's blood up, there was always the looming certainty that imps with guns were right over your head, separated only by a few inches of bulkhead and itching for a fight. Vannin lived for these little moments.

Because of the narrow shaft, the whole squad was stuck in a column formation -- not the best way to start a fight, but it left plenty of eyes free to watch any access tunnels they might encounter before the turn to the bridge, and a rear guard with big guns and a battle droid. If anyone in a white suit showed up to play, he'd have to fight his way through the whole line of the hardest rebels around -- and they'd make him eat blasters for every inch. But waiting for an attack wasn't in the gameplan, and it wasn't in Vannin's blood, either. Ten meters at a time, cover to cover, he and Beskad leap-frogged up the corridor, trading positions at the very tip of the spear.

The ship lurched as they neared their first waypoint. "The frag's going on out there?" he whispered without meaning to. Beskad shot him a look. "What? They start shooting at our ships, our ships're gonna have to shoot back, right?" He didn't have to finish the though -- if their pir privateer friends started blasting away at the enemy corvette, there was no telling which maintenance alleys might get blown out into space. But from here, there was no way to tell who was shooting at who, just as there was no way to do anything about it in the first place.

"Let's get the lead out," Vannin called over his shoulder. He pumped his fist in a hurry up damn it motion and started leap-frogging a little more rapidly. The rest of the unit could keep up or catch up as need be. He didn't mind dying in a maintenance shaft, but the thought of friendly-fire from some Y-jockey was making him more nervous than he cared to admit.

She was ok. She would be ok. Jubali hated space. It was cold and deadly and dark and full of stars. She hated it even when planetside. The night sky was not her friend. Being suspended in it, packed into a little metal coffin, hurtling towards another death box, filled with Imps, while hot, lethal light scythed all around...didn't do much to improve her opinion. Jubali's eyes and lips pressed tight in her skull. She gripped her blaster with bloodless hands. It was ok. She would be ok. She kept telling herself this. She wasn't sure if it was helping. It was hot in the shuttle compartment, hot and smelling of animal sweat and refined Tibanna. She was sweating in her armor, it pooled in the flak of her sleeves where it bunched up at the wrists and ankles. The ceramic apron was tight around her chest and dug into her collar and waist while she sat, digging in painfully each time the shuttle shuttered. Jubali tried to swallow. Her throat was dry. She was ok. She would be ok.

She shouldn't be so afraid. She was medical now. They had made it official. She was medic. They would protect her. The other sweating, stinking soldiers around her. They wouldn't send her first. She wasn't a scout anymore. She was medic. They would try to kill her though. The scum sucking Imps would try to kill her because she was medic. They always tried to shoot the medic first. She could see their glossy black eyes staring at her, like spirits of death. She was ok. She would be ok.

Jubali yelped inaudibly and cringed visibly as the shuttle collided with the corvette. She twitched in time with the humming of the torches as they bored into the hull of the target vessel. Here it was. Here was the sound and the fury. The short, sharp shock. Plating blew inwards, bodied surged forwards, the strangely distant sounding thump of the sonics, the spitting whine of blaster fire. Light. Smoke. Death.

In spite of her fear, or rather, because of it, Jubali sprinted to the front of the fighting, surging at each Imperial that was presented in front of her, rushing at them, firing as she dead, splattering their bodies and the decking around them in blaster bolts. Something like tears welled in Jubali's eyes. She hoped it was the smoke.

She followed after Corporal Vannin, close on his heels as he advanced, vanguard.

"The frag's going on out there?"

"What? They start shooting at our ships, our ships're gonna have to shoot back, right?"

Jubali looked at her superiors confused, another laser impact shuttered through the ship. They were shooting at the ship! The ship she was on! She hadn't even noticed the impacts until now, her blood screaming in her veins. She was going to be killed by her own side! It wasn't that much of a surprise, really. She didn't think much better of the rebels than she did the Imps, they were as ugly and brutal as their foes. She was proof enough of that. But she didn't want to die like that. She didn't need more ways to die.

"Let's get the lead out," She was ok. She would be ok. Taking just a moment, Jubali humped it after the point man coming abreast of him as they came to a space where the corridor widened out, into a maintenance walk beneath some large tubular ship component. Jubali didn't know what it was. Probably important. She would probably die if she so much as nicked it. Staring at the device, she saw the men first. A quintet of men, grey suits, grey faces, stared down at her from where they were crouching on the tube. Two of them had blaster pistols pointed down at the rebels. Barking half in warning, half in fear Jubali shoved Vannin sideways against the decking. She hadn't meant to, she had been trying to get him between her and the grey men. Her carbine flicked upwards, the grey faced man looked surprised. He didn't fire. Jubali didn't give him time. Full auto blaster fire scythed up into the space between the deck ceiling and the tube they hid on, many bolts burning holes into the the grey suits, one burned a hole into a grey face. Many more blaster bolts struck the grey tubing, leaving gaping, glowing holes. There was nothing but darkness behind the holes. What the hell was the stupid tube for? The grey men fell onto the tube. Three of them slide off the side, falling to the decking a few few from Jubali with unpleasant, wet thuds. On draped precariously on the tube. Jubali's stance was still fixed on the decking, her carbine still fixed on the motionless grey men. She stared at one of them. He had fallen with his face towards Jubali. He almost looked like he was staring straight at her. His eyes were glassy, filled with nothing but something like surprise. Maintenance. He was a maintenance man. His grey suit. Imperial. But not security. He was not a soldier. None of them were. She couldn't see their blasters. They had had blasters. They had pointed them at her. They weren't now.

"Clear." Jubali said sharply. That wasn't what she was supposed to say right now. It was all she could think to say. She was ok. She would be ok.

"Clear," Besk called as he checked a nook and cranny where an engineer might be hiding, "Belgaran, it's all yours," he gestured with his jaw at the engineering console as he moved past the bodies, he probably got one somewhere, and shifted into a position that allowed him to cover entrances. Depending on how thoroughly they sliced the engineering room's console, they could probably do quite a bit with power systems, which was why Besk was wearing a breather mask. If he'd had a thinsuit, it would have been so much better, but the Alliance was perenially short on that equipment even for shipboard units like the Liberators.

Another shudder went through the ship and Besk hollered back at Toland, "Get on the kriffing horn and tell those pirates to increase shields and take evasive action and to stop kriffing shooting this ship while we're on it!" If Belgaran dropped power to shields and a laser hit, they'd be eating vacuum in here, potentially. That was useful if you had sections sealed off, but they hadn't gotten there yet. "Everyone else not Belgaran and Toland get in defensive positions." By this time, the alarm was going off, blaring loud and flashing red, in response to the last turbolaser hit from either the Intruder or the Freedom Fighter.

The exertion of about a minute's worth of movement on this ship already had him dripping sweat and breathing heavily, and the mask wasn't helping that as his sweat pooled around it, off his forehead, because the helmet, the Alliance-issue that was so damn huge, was not merely bulky, but uncomfortably hot. He was tempted to chuck the piece of trash then and there, mostly because he'd never used it before but felt that in the tight confines of a ship, where the blaster fire was that much more concentrated, you wanted every plate of armor you could get between you and the other guy. He pulled down the welder's goggles from his forehead and settled them over their eyes as he hit the console switch for the door he was standing in front of -- there were three ways into this room and the Liberators only needed two.

While others were doing their thing, he got his torch going and started to weld that blast door firmly shut. The prize crew, if they survived this fight and actually took this ship, would be pissed at the extra work, but they were also sitting pretty on the Freedom Fighter while the Intruder's troopers were doing the actual fighting. Those bastards came in after the 'all clear.' If they complained about the mess the Liberators made, they could take lumps by way of apology.

This right here was the kind of shit that gave Sem a headache and a half for weeks.

It was bad enough he had to be screaming through space in what amounted to a metal tin can, hoping no one would happen to so much as graze them in the crossfire. That they would be boarding an enemy ship with no real hope of recall or retreat other than taking the damn thing was just a bonus. The real kicker, though, was that he was strapped inside a tin can heading on a mission with no hope of retreat with a whole squad of troops at least as anxious as he was. War, he was pretty convinced, was no place for a zeltron at the best of times. Being able to hear the feelings and thoughts of the people around (-don'tletmediehere-neversaidgoodbye-lastmealwasfuckingrations-itsokitsokitsok-) made it awful hard to dehumanize your enemy, to ignore the people's pain around you and focus on crushing out your own, which is why usually he preferred to be doing his part from as far away from other people as possible.

So naturally, they throw him into the exact opposite situation. He was lucky like that.

"It's going to be fine, guys." He found himself chuckling under his breath to no one in particular. "First one to the bridge gets to be 'Captain' all trip." It was a pretty weak joke, but a few smiles cracked here and there. Good ol' Sem. 'Least he tried.

Anything else he was going to say went out the window--or, more importantly, the boarding hatch as it popped open and they humped it out into the ship. From there it was actually easier for Sem in some ways. He had to hand it to the Liberators, when the time came to get shit done they buckled down and did it. Thoughts of death turned to thoughts of training, taking defensive positions, covering corners, and it was easier to slip in among it all and let his own thoughts of a cold, breathless death disappear. As the mild opposition began to appear, Sem got to work doing what Sem's did.

Shoot.

It was the one thing he was really, really good at. Half instinct, half training, half voodoo for all he cared, he had this part of the job down pat. An Imperial down the way--engineer or something, nice guy, Sem managed to pick up about as much as whatthefrag before the left side of his head disappeared. Stock to shoulder, barrel up, no need to look down the scope now just pop-pop-pop. He'd found a corner, shoulder pressed into metal grating, some annoying little button or another flashing in front of his eyes, but as they leapfrogged their way down to engineering he didn't have much time to do anything but focus and shoot.

Don't think. Just shoot.

By the time they were pinning down the doors, the ship rattling around them from the pirates--who oh, by the way, were supposed to be on their side!--he'd gotten himself settled and was ready for war. Of the few things Sem was truly grateful for, his knee pads were one of them. Flat enough to be stable--none of this rolling rounded bullshit--and padded enough with the addition of a sock or two to be comfortable, they let him take up a firing position by the doorway like no other.

Sighting down the barrel towards the cleverly marked Aft Doorway, Sem widened his stance just slightly. Time to earn his meager paycheck.

"No one's getting through here, bossman." He said, as much to himself as anyone else. "Just like back home."

With work underway on the console and the Engineering room secured, Vannin found himself out of a job. The squad had all the doors covered and Keller was a fish out of water when it came to slicing, so he and a lucky handful of others were left task-free, or nearly so. He tapped a few shoulders and set people to work clearing imp bodies away from the only good cover in the room -- wasn't much work, but anything they could do to fortify would be important if a counter-attack came. Or totally pointless, if it didn't. Either way it kept the mind occupied and that was as good a reason as any. He joked derisively about the dead imps as he moved them -- this one looked like he messed his pants, that one forgot to shave, how's your day going, Stormy?

The mission brief went into a lot of technical mumbo-jumbo that the corporal couldn't quite recall with his hands full of corpse, but the gist of it was, Engineering controlled all the backup systems on the ship, like a second bridge. Someone was supposed to reroute something to somewhere, and that would give them control of all the internal systems -- comms, life support, lavatories, and that sort of thing. In case the bridge got blown up or stormed, the engineers could keep everything running from here. What the rebels could do from here, though.... well, damage, he guessed. All that was a little over Vannin's head. What mattered was take it, hold it, and when the job here is done, move on. And not a lot of time to piss around.

"Movement," someone called softly. Vannin followed the voice and put himself behind something bulky. Lights moving in the access shaft, from the direction of the bridge. Had to be a security team, coming to reclaim the systems, and less than thirty seconds from contact. Vannin wrapped his weapon sling tightly around his forearm. Finally his blood was pumping the right way.

"Those bastards just came down the wrong corridor," he said, half-whispering, half-growling, tucking up tight into his covered firing position. "Light 'em up."

The imps came down the hall, moving a lot like the Liberators had done themselves -- using the bulkheads for cover, guns at the ready. They even had two at the point, leap-frogging their way just like Vannin and Besk. The corporal aimed for those two first. In the barrage of fire from damn near everybody, Vannin chose to believe that he'd gotten both of the front men -- there was no way to know for sure, but he believed it, and a grin played slowly across his face as he held his position, pouring fire into the advancing imperial unit.

Every sound was magnified in the "boarding vessel" and Voy could hear it all. Every breath taken by the crew, every movement made a sound. She could hear the bulkheads creak under the strain of moving through space. If she listened hard enough she could hear the fighting going on outside their boarding craft. But truth be told she rather not listen to what was happening outside, the thought of being in a vacuum always made her a little uneasy even though she grew up on star ships. This ship was small and she would barely call it a ship, but it was space worthy and was going to get them on their target. She knew that this vessel was piloted by questionable people, but it was an alliance that seemed to benefit all or it seemed that way.

What made things a little bit more difficult was the sound of others thoughts. She could "hear" them worry about the mission, some worry about their family or loved ones. Some thoughts were on dumb things like who they slept with the night before and wondering if they could get her to do that thing with her tongue again if they lived. Voy refocused her mind on what she was supposed to do soon.

She was to cover the backs of those infront of her and let them know if she "saw" anyone coming or hiding. She knew most didn't feel comfortable around her, bit during battle they could careless just as long as she watched out for them. Just then she felt the vessel attach itself to the ship that they were to board. She forced her "sight" to look into the ship, but she couldn't see any danger. That was the best thing with her sight, she could see further and past things that normal people couldn't. Though she couldn't see as far like most of her kind, in other words she was "short sighted". The phrase made her smile as it was an inside joke, well just for her as not many talked to her, so she got no chance to share it.

When everyone in the cabin stood so did she. The one thing that was a bit of a down side of being Miraluka was that they couldn't see colour like the rest of the species could. But that didn't matter much when you had a mission to focus on, plus she could see everyone's aura. So she knew where to point her blaster, no one had to worry about that. Light turned green or that's what she assumed as people began to move out of one cramped can into another. Just then she felt the vessel shake, she could see someone firing at them, but they were gone as soon as she saw them. Shite! Why in the Stars are they firing on us!? she thought then was suddenly bombarded by the emotions of those around her. They were fearful and wanted out of the boarding vessel before the others. This was how people got killed, they rushed into an area without thinking and not checking blind spots. They did this out of fear. She really wished that they would think and not be so fearful as she really didn't want to lose anyone.

Voy took her time moving into the other ship as she let others go ahead of her. Her heart was pumping like everyone else's only she was trying to keep a clear head and keep her "sight" wide. She needed to make sure everyone was out of harms way as best she could in this war. She followed Vannin for the most part as he seemed to want to lead or at least he stayed close to the front. She knew she might be more useful up front as she could let the team know who was coming. Though there was a tech that had equipment for that stuff. If anything Voy was the back up system for that.

No dying on this team, everyone lives. she thought as she made her way up the line, though at first it was hard to move up. The place was cramped and there was little room to move. But that didn't matter much when blaster fire started. She could see another force sensitive fire at the enemy, but the girl was terrified and felt horrible for killing part of the crew of the ship they had boarded. Truth be told, Voy didn't care as those men would of killed her the first chance they got. Might as well kill them first before they get you or worse a team member.

"Your right!" Voy called to the recruit infront of her. The man shot his blaster down a small alley and she could "see" the imp fall. The man looked at her and gave a nod before moving up.

Once they reached one of the check points Voy helped clear some of the imp bodies. She smirked at some of Vannin's morbid jokes, you had to have some sense of humor when doing stuff like this. Just so long as your joking didn't compromise the team in anyway. But Vannin was pretty good with his humor or at least she thought so.

After moving the bodies hid behind a bulkhead that had a good "view" of the corridor that lead into the systems. "Movement." Voy called softly as she "saw" the imps before anyone else could see them with their eyes.

"Light 'em up!"

Was all she heard before a hail of blaster fire rang off the walls. It was nearly deafening, but she didn't pay too much attention to that. She simply pointed and shot, most thought it was weird that someone with no eyes could shoot like she could. But then they had eyes and there was no way they could understand how she could see things.

As she pulled the trigger to her rifle she could see the imp that the blaster bolts assulted fall. He didn't die right away, he fell then struggled to breath. He knew he was dying and she could feel that he was scared. This was the hard part of being a her, but all she had to do was think of her squad and the fear and pain they would go through if the imps got them.

Harden yourself, if it's not them then it's your squad and we will not go through that again!

“Fire in the hole!” the private screamed as he cocked back his arm to throw a grenade down the short hallway. The action drew his body slightly out from behind the bulkhead that sheltered him. A blaster bolt from down the corridor struck him in the side and spun him back against the bulkhead hard, the grenade falling from nerveless fingers.

“Medic,” Lieutenant Adriana Racine called by reflex as she leaned out and kicked the grenade down the hallway clattering it across the deck plating. There was a shout of alarm from the Imperials at the end of the hall and then the subsonic WHUMPH of the grenade’s detonation filled the air. These Imperials were good, caught by surprise, underequipped and in a poor defensive position they were still managing to make a real nuisance of themselves. Well, Racine was good too and platoon E-1 was at least as good as its newbie CO.

“Go, go,go!” she screamed at her troops, suiting words to action and springing forward from behind the shelter of her bulkhead, muscles screaming as she raced forward, her skin prickling with adrenaline as the rush of hormones burned through her blood. Cassik, one of the Ulsam veterans, fired a long burst from his blast rifle into the billowing smoke even as he grabbed one of the replacements and shoved the man bodily forward after his Lieutenant.

Racine, Cassik and two replacements whose names escaped her, burst into the small room the Imperials had been using as an improvised strong point. There were a half dozen of them in naval security uniforms and two in the white laminate plate of Stormtroopers. Presumably they had organized the hasty defense which had delayed the attack for several critical minutes. Not all the Imperials were dead but the effect of a close quarters concussion grenade was a horrifying thing. The waves of energy released had jellied the internal organs and ruptured the membranes of the defenders; blood was evident at ears, eyes and nose. The room stank of expended cordite, burning plastic and the sickly sweet smell of charred meat.

Both of the stormtroopers were still moving, albeit weakly, their armor was some protection from the blast but not much. Racine shot one of the struggling figures in the chest and neck with her blaster rifle while Cassik drew some sort of vibro weapon from his boot and thrust it under the remaining troopers helmet, yanking it free with a vicious twist. Racine turned her head back down the passageway.

“Clear up front!” she yelled.

“Coming through!” a voice yelled back. Mastin? Marsteen? Damnit she should know the name but she was new to the unit and they would have to manage. There were more important things than names for her to know right now. She took deep breaths, deliberately refocusing herself and oxygenating her blood. The room was hot, heated by blaster fire and the combustion of the grenade, the pollutants tickled the back of her throat. She touched the side of her heavy blast helmet.

“Echo one six to Echo one four,” she spoke, her helmet AI triggering the link to corporal Besk, currently in command of the group that had been assigned to the engineering section. He had already breached engineering, ahead of schedule where she had been delayed. She smiled wryly to herself, she was lucky to have such good NCOs, too good in fact, to promote them up to officer rank when there were so many replacements to integrate into the unit. Racine knew from her own experience that good corporals and sergeants were much more important to a unit than good officers. Although by all that was holy she would try to be a good one.

“We have reached the bridge, breaching in figures two, say again two minutes.” She turned to the shuttered blast door, watching as the demolitions expert spread the quicklfash gel that would burn through the heavy door in a matter of seconds. If it were her in there, she would open the door toss grenades and shut it again before the attackers could react. No point in trusting to defenses they must have known the attackers could defeat. She smiled grimly. It would be what it would be.

"Echo 1-4 to 1-6, working on the power systems now," there was blaster fire to be heard over the comm chatter, "encountering plastics in fireteam strength, over."

"Throw kriffing grenades at them!" Besk hollered over the fight to the troopers. Some might think they'd be overheard, but between the corridors and the shooting and everything else, the sound was drowned out after a certain point. But he'd given them lots of sonic grenades to actually USE the frakking things.

Some of the replacements were so busy just firing hard down the corridors that they forgot the other options they had, but once the shouted order went out, grenades started flying, going off with an incredible racket down the hallways -- the sound of sonic grenades was piercing even outside of the radius, but ringing ears was better than live enemies. He worked his way to the front of the action, near Vannin, and gave a nod, with a grenade already held in one hand opposite the one holding the blaster as the bolts from the Imperials, less than there was fifteen seconds ago, scorched the blast door's frame when the occasional bolt came close, throwing sparks and debris into the air -- that was what blast vests were good for catching...which was also why he went with sonic grenades. They were energy-based and far more likely to be useful against the sort of armor the Imperials wore.