A pressure-suited deckhand responded to Brad's hand signal that his crew was aboard by conducting a visual safety check of the ship-to-utility connections. He turned away, and Brad felt the deck vibrate as the clamshells slammed shut. Kumiko and Scarf moved up to stand behind Brad as pressure equalizers hissed. Moments later, the air lock's inner door slid aside and they passed through. Opening their helmet faceplates, they returned the glares of the receiving party.
"Rimov, and gunnery is my business," said the officer, "what in hell are you gonna do to my guns?"
Brad wished he were beside the grizzled spacefarer facing their common adversary, rather than confronting him.
"Curtin, and my business is to make sure your guns don't get you all killed. I want to check your weapons control center, and every gun emplacement. First, central control."
"Hey," chimed in Scarf. "How about a drink with the ship's commander? Courtesies of the space-ways, and all that? I'd sure like to sample some Inner Region booze."
"You guys ain't invited guests, no way," Rimov flashed back. "The Commander is fussy about the people he drinks with."
"Well, you tell him…" Scarf raised a fist to add gesture to his words, but Brad waved him off, his eyes holding on Rimov.
"To hell with that," he snapped. "We're here to do a job and get back to our ship. I repeat: first, the fire control center, then each gun emplacement. Now."
"Our fire control center has been deactivated. Why do you have to see each gun?"
"You know damn well, Rimov," Brad said, putting as much harshness into his tone as he could muster. "Your pieces can be fired independent of central control; I'm going to make sure they won't be. Let's get on with it."