Trace's distraction worked, at least well enough. The clattering noise down the hall drew several bursts of blind fire, but the fire team had decided to keep their heads down and instead of looking the wrong way, they weren't looking at all. A Gendarme, as stealthy as it might have been pressed between the framework of two spinal pillars, did not have many options to flank that weren't a couple dozen inches above the enemy's nose. Though as Trace scanned his situation, he would notice a slim circulation duct that might be just big enough for a very limber human to crawl through, or perhaps an unarmored Gendarme like Trace and Tank were riding.
Below the machine's imitation of a spider, the team was beginning to lose morale. One tugged his helmet off, something close to panic in his icy blue irises, "What the fuck; what in hell's name are we shooting at, did anybody see anything?"
One of the other two suits of armor, a small red chevron-and-bell marking him out against the paired black bars of the other two, made a hand motion that seemed to translate into, "get your god damned helmet back on!" with a measure of well-earned authority. The third pirate tapped Chevron-and-bell's shoulder guard and belted out a series of hand signals, confident as they seemed to mimic the strobing radio pulses coming from somewhere down the hall like an attenuated echo.