>>5231597>>5231598>>5231612A hundred years ago, a stock Magellan fresh off the assembly line made for a decent enough combat exosuit. The spear gun for ornery sea life or grappling cables can just as easily puncture human flesh. The plasma cutter slags and melts industrial-grade alloys, short of the thickest armor plating that could be found on starships. Perhaps not a long-term combat operation, but one still good in a picket or emergency role.
The Conquistador refit, however, takes it several steps further. A belt-fed 20mm rotary cannon replaces the speargun. The plasma cutter remains, albeit with the industrial emitter head exchanged for a liquid-cooled, focused barrel for more accurate and rapid-fire shooting. In addition to weaponry, there’s upgrades to the ECM, arm/leg actuators and sensors, among other things traded for deep-sea operation capability.
You have none of those things. You don’t need them for the task at hand. The Conquistador is more PUEXO hunter and anti-armor than anything else. The original works just as fine in an unexpected position of anti-infantry.
“Get me on external speakers,” you mutter to HOPI. Once she does so, you clear your throat, and announce, “This is Razor. Sorry I’m late.”
You punctuate your apology with a shot from your plasma cutter. Dialed back to prevent the Calypso’s structure from suffering more than a scorch mark, its less accurate, less focused and has a diminished range, but still burns hot enough to make flesh run like wax. One of the raiders learns this the hard way as the top half of his body abruptly vanishes in a fine, glowing cloud of ashes.
Whoops and cheers erupt from the defenders. A handful of familiar faces pop up from behind a makeshift barricade of crates and containers, propped up around the PUEXO hangar bays. You spot some of the mechanics of Holt’s PUEXMech team, but not the chief herself. Embedded with them are a handful of Sergeant Kwan’s marines.
The tip of your plasma cutter glows a hot, cherry-red with every successive blast you send downwind. Placing yourself between the marauders and the Calypso’s deckhands, you do everything in your power to give the defenders extra cover, and as brief of a reprieve as you can.
“Where’s Chief Holt?” you shout over the cacophony.
Specialist Carter, identifiable by his uniform and mop of dark brown hair, yells back, “She sent a group to run ammunition from the armory! When they didn’t come back, she went after them with Hasazi and Darius.”
Shit. “How long ago was that?”
“About…” He ducks, and not a second sooner, a hail of bullets comes around an exposed flank. Cursing, he pulls a marine over, and they both unleash a reply that sends the marauder scampering back around the corner. “Fuck off! Sorry, not you, Unami. About three minutes!”
All you can do is pray that the chief isn’t hurt. Or avenge her if that won’t be the case. “What’s the status of the Calypso?”
(cont.)
