Another Cold Day
It was cold, even though Liam knew that space was a good insulator and keeping things cool was a problem (hence the retractable fins on vessels). But try telling that to the chill in his bones, to the aches and the pains.
In those immortal words. I'm getting too old for this shit.
He was coming up to thirty, on the cusp of it, like that moment before you loose your virginity, standing on the cliff and ready to take the proverbial (and often literal) plunge.
Modern medical technology would give him many more years yet. Lord-willing, many more decades. But he found, waking up there were a few more aches, in his abused joints every now and then, the cold as now, was much more distracting than when he was young and full of piss and vinegar.
What do I expect? I've been going hard-core for a while, jumping out of perfectly good dropships, and preforming orbital drops with an umbrella. Landing a little harder than I should on Ohahloes (OALO...Orbital Altitude, Low Opening).
As long as he could keep up with the younger bastards, he was entitled to wear the comet, and call himself a Staff Sergeant.
But some days, were worse than others. Like today.
A day earlier, twenty two hours, he had left the safety of the corvette, him and his team. Dispersed to present less of a LIDAR profile, wearing skintight mechanical counter pressure suits, and hooked up to the oxygen packs of the broomsticks.
They had slept on the way over, defecated, urinated, ate food-paste. Slept again, or read from palmpods or did mindgames over direct link to their float-buddies. But when they weren't sleeping, they were keeping an eye out for any telltale distortions, the difference between dark of space and the shadows of a starship.
And there it was, a cruiser. An older model to be sure, old Confederate tech. But a tough old bitch, with the legs to harass cargo freighters. So she had to go.
The Indie ship was located, nestled up to a mobile asteroid, like a calf suckling from a teat, whilst yard-dogs milled over her hull like fleas on a...well...dog.
The ship looked to be far away, but peception being a pecurlier beast in space, and Senior Spaceman Liam Coorinna wasn't about to take this for granted. So carefully controlled puffs on the broomsticks to bring them to a halt, and Liam thumped his drift-buddy on the shoulder..then when that didn't worked, gave their helmet a heafty thwap. Then leaned in close, visor-to-visor. "Bryarson, wake up," he growled in the 'NCO's Voice'. That Quit fucking about tone of voice.
Then, no response, he checked the suit display, and bit back a curse...the vitals indicated Bryarson was very very dead. O2 poisoning, the bends essentially. But nobody could hear him anyway so he let rip, with an audible and heartfelt, "Shitting fuckgobbling dammit."
No matter, he mused as he rigged up the body to blow up, and the broomstick (SOP for Skirmishers was not to let equipment or personnel fall into enemy hands..so the guy would atleast go out with a bang). He took the man's own explosives, checked them over, the man's rifle was taken and spare ammo, and he manouvered in close to the recce point, to confer with his remaining squad, see who made it, who didn't and readjust the ship-blowing-upping situation as needs be.
Even if it's cold, I live for this shit. But hey, Revenge is a dish best served cold as they say. In space, nobody can hear you get goosed.