SIV Endgame: An Opco Boone Adventure: Difference between revisions

{{a|opcobooneadventure|}}“When it came, the end-game came down fast and hard. It was in a skirmish with a rogue [[structured investment vehicle]] in the Caymans.  

Group Captain Bundie set his jaw. He scanned the ragged company, lined up on a pew and hooked into the static margin line. “Okay, lads, this is it. Anyone who wants can stay aboard —”

The confirm horn squawked. The netting flad flashed green. The nine extant irregulars dropped out of the MCA. The went in [[delta-one]] configuration.  

Frenchie was oldest in the company. He came down last. He snapped his chute and pulled a [[three-point hero drop]] in the high-tide flotsam. The boys yukked it up and moved out.

They came armed for stocks: the local partisans were battle-hardened right down the capital structure. Bundie mandated shoulder-mounted [[Master Securities Lending Agreement|Mizzlers]] for all. In case of [[Agent lender|ALD]] cointel interference they carried a brace of bump—stock [[Pledge GMSLA|pledge model]]s that fired from the hip. To guard against [[synthetic equity swap|synthetic]] devices, they backed it up with five late-model ISDAs retrofitted with dynamic margin [[CSA]]s.  

Frenchie, of course, had his usual assortment of exotic concoctions: some antique FBF side-arms, an old CMOF and his trusty [[OSLA Anatomy|Osler]] if they really got in a jam.  

Bundie looked around the boys.  

“This could get — ah — a little ''tasty''. These hostile units tend to be well armoured: [[limited recourse]] shielding fore and aft.”

Tucker chomped on his cheroot. He split a toothy grin and patted the barrel of his weapon.  “Ain’t no pissant [[Repackaging vehicle|LRV]] going get in the way of ''this'' honey.”  

Tucker’s piece was one ungainly bastard. He called it the ''Liquidator''. It had some universal dock on the magazine.  

“What the hell is ''that'', Tucks?” Frenchie chuckled. “That home made?”

Tucker shrugged. “It’s a [[Prime brokerage agreement|P.B.A.]] It’s got ''herbs'' my dudes. Universal [[master netting agreement|netter]].”

“‘P. B.,’ As in ''Prime Breaker'', baby. I had it built to custom spec in the [[Linklaters|Links]] chop shop. It’s got stocks, recalls, [[dynamic margin|telescopic margin]] lending, [[Initial margin|I.M. recalibration]] real time. Have a go at this baby —”  

Tucker grinned, slapped Chippy’s chops and brought his buddy back topside. “You like? Huh?”

“we got an ID yet, kiddo?”

The young radio operator was barely eighteen. He ran a redline. “A reloadable [[MTN]] configuration of some sort, sir. Programmable, most likely.”

Frenchie let out a low whistle. Bundie swept up the map. “Thank-you, Lance-Corporal. C’mon fellows — we need to move off the beach, lads, and fast.”

Swart whoooed. She shucked her [[CSA]] and reloaded.

Frenchie flip-cocked his piece and hollered, “feeding time at ze zoo, mon cher.”

 

Bundie sniffed the air. “Something’s — not — right. They’re  —  it’s just  —  ”

The boys weren't listening. They smelled a firefight. They fanned out to fill their boots.  

Tucker and Frenchie went left.  

Biffer went right.  

Swart kicked off her vol damper and went charging in on foot with a sawn-off repo.

Bundie stood motionless in the clearing. Adrenalin flooded his core. “Something’s not right, lads,” he said.  

But the unit kept advancing. Only the lance-corporal even heard him. The boy stayed close. “Stay frosty, son — this is going to get sticky. But be prepared to move fast. You may have to make some calls. I’ve your back, lad.”

“But who’s got yours, sir?”

Bundie pressed a weapon into the boy’s hand. It was a late model ISDA. The boy gaped.

At that moment the [[SIV]] started rolling.  

“Oh, come on, cherie — we ’ave a little fun, n’est-ce pas? —”

SIVs had grunt in the flat, toted decent firepower — you couldn't be casual with them — but they were unwieldy bastards. They had limited downside protection against liquidity drains, were underpowered in choppy markets, and basically under-gunned. Against and anyone who knew what it was doing they were easy pickings. They should be no match for an experienced unit of seasoned killers like the Irregulars.

As such, tended to be staffed with greenhorn sappers you could afford to lose. The industry slang for the poor suckers aboard a SIV were “expendables”.  

Bundie surveyed the theatre from his foxhole. He knew at once: these were no ordinary SIVs.

They were more manoeuvrable: more agile, quicker to react; more volatile, less predictable in their defensive manoeuvres.

They gamed out scenarios and learned the Irregs manuoevres. Bundie clocked the insignia on the uniform —   that's three star MD at the commends and a EVP on the gatling. And they were tooled the fuck up: these were not standard issue C-peashooters

The S. I. V. anticipated his every move like it had a direct line into his goddamn amygdala. He loaded up a fresh magazine of long-dated IRS, but they knocked out his ISDAS. The PVs boiled into the atmosphere.  

He was left defending the back-end with a repurposed 85 OSLA and a left—handed FBF.  

Frenchy loved it: he dug that gallic style. Tucker less so: he didn't read foreign lingos and couldn't abide garlic.  

“If you want to see your sweetheart again, sure.”  

Bundie tried to close it out. He flipped a downgrade trigger on a DRV: nothing. Hey called key man —   homme clef —   on the FBF. It misfired.  

Bundie jammed a second-to-default EM sovereign basket into the magazine of the only piece he had to hand —   a rusty old semi automatic EMTA —   and lit up the theatre. It flamed into life.  

It was dirty, noisy and hot —   he shucked out burnt up RWAs and kept reloading —   and at last it holed the SIV. The sic stumbled. Its runners uncoiled and it stoved into the sand on one knee. It was crippled but still shooting — eventually it crapped out but not before it had annihilated three quarters of Bundie's unit.  

Tucker was already goneski. Chipper was dead. Biffer was in a bad way. Blood gouted from his mouth. He wouldn't last long.  

Frenchie — dear, dear Frenchie - so called for his expertise with the ABF — was out cold, two limbs blown clean off. They bobbed redly in the surf.  

Bundie fished one out - he grabbed it by the boot —  and bought it back to his stricken pal.

Frenchie drifted back into a shallow woozy consciousness. He was deathly pale, wet sand caked in his hair and his face. He moaned. His breath rattled and gurgled. He was in a bad way.

Bundie fed his old pal water from his canteen  —  just wet his lips and tossed the useless limb on the sand.  

“Thank you, Bundie,” croaked the old soldier. He looked at the leg. “I didn't think I'd see that again. I lost it in the drink. I thought it would sink.”

“I guess you got lucky, French,” Bundie grunted. “It was a floating leg”.  

“No, Frenchie. Don't you dare give up on me. We'll find that leg. We can buy one in. I'll pay the costs.  

“No Frenchie. No. I don't know it. I won't hear of it —” but Bundie could feel it slipping away. He felt the air between them thicken in to a dull miasma, insensate, as if slipping under an anaesthetic. He shook his head mutely, his eyes welled, and he watched the scene at a remove, out of body, through a fogged lens.  

Frenchie He sat up weakly and regarded the smoking SIV. “They will be back soon. Don't let them take me.”

“Oh, I'm not leaving you, Frenchie. We're getting you out of here.”  

Frenchie coughed up more blood and limply shook his head. “Don't be a damn fool. I'm done for. I'll slow you up. If you take me they'll catch us all. The world needs you, Bundie. Put me out of my misery. Don't let them —”

“I can't do that to you Frenchie. You know I can't.”

“Don't talk like that Frenchie. Bundie's voice was beginning to waiver.  

Frenchie shut his eyes and whispered, “Let me go.”  

“I can't French!”

“They are coming. That one was out of range. The next will be — “  

Bundie swallowed and looked tenderly at his pal. “I'll never forget you, Frenchie Saunders,” he said.  

Frenchie closed his eyes. “put me out of my pain boss,” he breathed. “this is  — my prayer — for —”

Bundie said, “relief”. He cocked the old Stocklender. A quick static burst of cancellable terms yammered into his friend. Frenchie slumped.

He could see it, still clutched in Frenchie's cold, dead fingers.