Silas Tine's Leagues Under

3 Wrench, Blood, and Water - by Silas Tine

As the first of the kitted-out troopers' heels hit the grated deck, he stepped aside and unleashed a spray of automatic gunfire over his head.

Bullets screeched as they sparked off the steel ceiling, and the roar of gunfire reverberated throughout the bay.

Thulani cursed and dove for cover. Raiders, here? Joberg hadn't been raided in over five years.

Thulani peeked over a rolling cart as another two dozen figures slid into the bay on rappel lines. Those on the ground expertly combed through the room, cutting off all the exits.

"Everyone on the ground!" The one who initially fired hollered. As the raiders found cowering bay workers, they posted up, getting a gun on each potential threat.

Three crossed over to Thulani, Thshepo, and Johan. Synthetic black and teal body plates articulated over the invaders' wet suits. They brandished well-maintained and oiled carbines with worn paint jobs.

"Hands where we can see them!" Their leader barked.

Thulani's hand quivered as they drifted over his head, the grate flooring dug painfully into his knees. Water from the seal breach trickled over piped and wired under the grating, and the automatic pumps hummed to life, combating the leak.

Thshepo shrunk, with his hands up, but Johan glowered at the invaders, body half turned.

Oh no, what was he doing? Thulani recognized the coiled posture of a yellow-bellied sea snake readying a strike.

"You!" The corsair in the lead of a trio snapped at the mechanic. Dark eyes gleamed in waves under the red rotary emergency lights. A shallow beard of black coils sprouted from his dark skin. "I said hands up!"

Johan's lip curled.

Thulani didn't want to be anywhere near the stupid mechanic when he gave their captors a reason to open fire. Nobody liked Johan. His abrasive personality and antagonism drove people to flee like a school of fish from a net. Despite his being a total ass, Thulani had no desire to wipe Johan's brains off of his face.

"Hey, bring them all to the middle!" Their leader, who touched down last, ordered. Her sharp voice spurred her men to action.

The three confronting Thulani's trio prodded and pushed the technicians from the decomp doc to the cluttered cargo bay. About two dozen assailants corralled the twenty-five Joberg doc techs into a mob of primarily red jumpsuits.

"Identification cards!" The leader barked. "Now!"

I.D. cards? Thulani scrambled to comply, wondering why, in the ocean, the raiders would want to check their I.D.s. Come to think of it, these men were well-equipped for pirates. A fair-skinned elderly marauder with singed eyebrows snatched Thulani's I.D. as he unclipped it from its cheap plastic case. The intruders collected the cards and handed them to their commander, whose neck was marked with a splotchy red burn scar that seemed to pulsate in the emergency lights. She scrutinized each and then cross-referenced a handheld tablet.

Thulani kept his head down, trying not to make eye contact, contrary to Johan, who glared at the intruders through stormy eyes. They just needed to wait. The police force would arrive shortly and save them. Down one of the exit hatches, muted automatic gunfire sputtered. Were there other elements to the raid? How many soldiers did this obscure enemy have?

"There, there, there, and there," The leader pointed out four people, and the men dragged the unfortunate out of the group.

"To show we're serious —" The leader signaled by flicking her wrist.