13 comments/ 23006 views/ 20 favorites Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 00 By: Qeda_Charlemaigne PROLOGUE She'd fallen asleep again. Upright, strapped in to the flight chair, the blackness of space outside the cockpit window. She yawned, blinked her eyes, ran her hands through her short red hair, and scanned the instrument panel, noting that all ship's systems were in the green. "Okay, Ship, Talk to me. How long was I asleep this time? Where are we? Anything unusual happen? Did I miss dinner?" "Pilot entered REM sleep seven point three hours ago," the flat monotone of the ship's computer, totally devoid of emotion replied. "Current location is one million, four hundred twelve thousand, twenty seven statute miles past the nearest earth-type planet. A black hole was detected and course adjusted for avoidance and optimal trajectory. You have not eaten in fourteen hours, seven minutes," "Pull up a population density on that planet. Anything like I might want?" "Planetary population is currently ninety-eight billion, three hundred fourteen million..." "Skip it. Find the next one. Preferably one with under a million, worldwide. I want it to be a lonely place. I hate people." "Affirmative. Continuing scan." Quillan unstrapped from the chair and went into the kitchen to get some food. Passing the port side airlock, she cast her eyes firmly to the deck plate as she always did, eying the path worn into the paint. Each time she passed the airlock, flashbacks leading to this point in time occurred. ---------------------------------------- "This tribunal finds the Federation Flight Academy to be in serious violation of the health and welfare of its students and hereby awards full damages sought by the plaintiff, Quillan S. Margoles, in this case. Damages to be paid within twenty four hours. This tribunal further finds the Academy training standards vastly below established norms and orders a full investigation into all courses, classes, equipment, and academy sponsored programs. Administration, starting with the institution president on down to the third sub-level stockholders, will undergo a thorough financial and background check by an investigation team of this court's choosing. Investigation to start no later than thirty days from this date, and end no later than one calendar year from today. Military records will show that the plaintiff was discharged under honorable conditions and is entitled to full military benefits, as well. No appeals are allowed in this case. Thus it is scribed and recorded. "Miss Margoles, please allow this tribunal to express its deepest apologies for the injuries you sustained during the final test flight of your class. While the job itself is inherently dangerous, the students are valuable assets and not to be 'thrown away.' The government invested several million credits because you proved that you had the necessary skills for your chosen field. You do not owe the government anything in recompense and are free to take the skills you have learned into the private sector, if you wish. It is truly a shame that your injury, however slight you might think it, precludes you from military service, but the government does have requirements, one of them being that your limbs and extremities must all function normally. Even the fact that your little finger does not work...well...I'm sorry. Thank you for your service. "This tribunal is closed. Judge William Z. Harrison, presiding." Quillan turned to her lawyer with a big grin and hugged the man. "You and I are very rich people," he said. "I just might retire, even if I only get the standard thirty-three percent." He reached behind her and tugged her flaming red ponytail. "So, what happens now?" she asked, self-consciously smoothing her dress. "If you don't get notified that your account's been credited by this time tomorrow...set your alarm...call me and I'll take care of it. If they don't want the damage settlement doubled, they'll pay. If they wait until the end of the week, they're fucked and you own a federally funded school. The government doesn't have that much money." Twenty three hours and fifty eight minutes later, just as Quillan picked up her morning coffee cup, the electronic door chime of her one-room mazecube sounded. Carrying her cup with her, she crossed the small room, turned on the video monitor and saw that it was a courier. She opened the door and the courier handed her an envelope, presenting a small pad for her to press her thumb against to verify delivery. Behind him stood four heavily-armed, very capable-looking guards who looked everywhere but at her. They carried phased-pulsed laser rifles, reactive thermal armor, concussion and fragmentary grenades. Heavy shit. MilCom Special Forces, probably. She handed the courier a twenty-credit chip for gratuity and closed the door. Her hands shook as she opened the envelope and dumped a small dull black chip into her hand. Moving to her computerminal, she slotted the chip as she held her breath. It was a good thing she was sitting down. As she watched, the indicated amount quavered as the system adjusted the numbers. The Academy had cut their time too close. The system had automatically doubled the awarded amount as penalty. Her lawyer was getting thirty-three percent of the original amount. Quillan fainted. ---------------------------------------- "Here we are, CAPTAIN Margoles," said the salesman with an easy smile, emphasizing the word. "Terms and conditions, taxes, licensing, registration as 'Hawk's Wing,' et cetera, et cetera. If you agree with it all, your thumbprint, please." She quickly scanned the readout as she had been taught in the Academy (the Academy had its uses) and pressed her thumb to the pad. A green light indicated confirmation. Her thumbprint was instantly relayed to the bank in order to debit her account, to the government in order that she be taxed for said purchase, and lastly, to the ship so that she could open the door manually. In turn, the ship automatically accessed certain databases and began the preparation for the arrival of its new owner. It set internal temperatures to her preferred comfort level, ordered her favorite foods (which would be delivered within the hour), and keyed itself to her vocal pattern. The small cargo ship was hers. ---------------------------------------- "Hey, sweets," said Ilana, clad in her bulky atmosphere suit, helmet in hand and hanging loosely at her side. "Ship reports that the housing on the port side stabilizer's loose and we won't be able to make landfall until it's fixed. It'll take me about 15 minutes to repair. We'll still make the scheduled run. Be right back." "Hang on just a sec, babe. Let me start the calibrations for re-entry," Quillan replied, totally absorbed in her work. The hiss of the airlock door as it opened didn't register on her, so engrossed was she. Finishing, she turned in her seat and looked around for her business partner and bed mate. The olive complected beauty was no where to be found. Quillan swore under her breath. "Dammit....told her a million times to let me check the suit before she went out..." That was one of the many things that the academy had drilled and drilled and drilled into her until she started dreaming of doing suit checks. She would wake up in the morning, hands "smoothing" thin air as if running them over an imaginary suit. A pinhole leak could become a major rent in the suit and the occupant of said suit would turn into red gelatin as he or she was sucked out due to the massive pressure differential. All of the joints had to be checked to insure proper seating or the individual would burst as a result of the pressure difference. Taking a step into the hallway, Quillan made her way aft towards the airlock and spotted Ilana, her helmet on, turned toward the outer door, hand moving for the pressure button. Quillan's blood froze. Ilana hadn't worn the prescribed hood and some of her long dark hair was protruding through the helmet joint. This would cause a tiny gap in the tight fitting collar and allow... "ILANA! STOP! REPRESSURIZE! REPRESSURIZE!" Quillan screamed into the intercom. "YOUR SUIT'S COMPROMISED! REPRESSURIZE! ILANA!" The O2 indicator next to the hatch on the far wall began its descent as the air was evacuated from the chamber in order to match the vacuum of space. Ilana turned to wave at Quillan, and caught sight of the wide-eyed terror-stricken face on the other side of the airtight door. She cocked her head quizzically, remembering that she hadn't turned on her helmet-com, then her own eyes grew wide with horror. She whirled towards the panel to hit the emergency pressurization button. Quillan scrunched her eyes closed, but couldn't close her ears as a steady stream of blood and brain matter splattered obscenely into the door and glass surrounding it. Alana's skin had burst, her internal organs being sucked out to jet into the door. Quillan had kept her hair cut short ever since. ---------------------------------------- She ate woodenly, thinking of the past. Fork to plate. Open mouth. Insert food. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. She didn't taste it. She didn't even care what it was. It was food. It satisfied the basic instinct of survival. "Captain, there is an Alliance distress signal with a repeating plea for aid," said the emotionless voice of Ship. "The signal lies one quarter parsec distant. It is barely discernible. Your orders, please." "You're fucking with me. No one's out this far but us." Quillan picked up her glass of juice and wandered back into the cockpit, leaving her plate on the table. "All right, let's hear it." A pleasant female voice, unhurried and quite calm, issued forth from the speakers. The signal was very weak and quite broken. "This... Alli...Dre...ught ...mas A Park...r...any...ip...within...nge. Ple...ackn...edge." "Ship, head on over there. Give me about a three-hour arrival time. Their transmitter's fucked. Any idea why?" She felt the ship alter course and increase speed in response to her command. "They are on the edge of an asteroid field. Hull breaches in several places. The four antenna array points have been destroyed. Attempting to read the registration identification. It's a dreadnaught class." Quillan rolled her eyes. Great. Dreadnaught class meant military. It was the military's fault she was out this far in the first place. She wanted to get as far from them, or anyone else for that matter, as possible. She was sorely tempted to let them rot, but decided that whatever crew was still on board the distressed ship had nothing to do with her situation. "Dreadnaught? The military should be all over them. Anything on the news nets or milcoms?" "Negative," came the flat reply. "Send a reply to let them know somebody heard them. Inform them that we're coming. Let me know when you have a strong enough signal to carry on a decent conversation," Quillan said, draining her glass and heading back into the kitchen to wash the dishes. "Approximately two hours, thirty minutes until full signal acquisition." Quillan dropped into her pilot's chair and propped her feet up on the console. Ship had reported that the signal was clearing up and would be fully understandable in just a few moments. "This is Captain Quillan Margoles, commanding 'Hawk's Wing.' You guys look to be fucked over in the most trashmatter way. What can I do?" Indeed, the dreadnaught looked totally dead in space, surrounded by the Clovis Asteroid Belt. How the hell had they gotten stuck in THAT? That asteroid belt was listed in every known space chart and database. Her hull was dented and scratched beyond belief; it was hard to tell what the original color had been as the paint had been scraped off in great sections. Enormous rocks, some the size of the "Hawk's Wing" herself, were embedded in the hull. Quillan shivered. How many people had died? "Captain Margoles, I am First Mate Alice Nine of the Alliance Dreadnaught Thomas A. Parker. Thank you very much for responding. I am the only one aboard this ship. The escape pods have all been taken. I wish to leave the asteroid belt and any help will be rewarded by the Alliance," came the smooth unhurried female voice. Sounded kinda sexy. "Ship," Quillan ordered, "hold position a thousand miles from the edge of the belt. Scan for life on that thing, display only." "Affirmative." The display showed the proper information. No life signs? Must be interference from the asteroid belt. "First Mate Alice Nine, what sort of reward is in the offing for a dreadnaught class?" "I'm unsure of the exact amount, Captain," came that sexy voice again, "but it will be worth your while. I am immobile at the moment and can't get to the main power system. There is enough power to run this transmitter and life support for four more hours. If our main was online, things would be a lot better." Quillan's eyes and hands flashed over the various panels, flipping switches and checking readouts. Lastly, she dropped her feet to the deck, sitting upright in her chair and fastened the five-point seat belt, making sure it was cinched tightly. She hated bouncing off of hard objects like walls. "Alright, First Mate Alice Nine," Quillan said matter-of-factly, "I'm coming in. Have you got enough power to open an outer door for me? Can you even get to a panel to do that?" In response, a cargo door opened slightly, then froze about halfway up. "You gotta be shittin' me," Quillan muttered to herself, then spoke up so the vocal pickup would transmit. "Dreadnaught Thomas A. Parker, can't you open the door a little wider?" "I'm sorry, Captain, but I can't. I'll need the power to close the door to prevent an asteroid from penetrating. That will also decrease the current battery supply. If you wish to abort the attempt, I won't hold it against you." Quillan sighed. She hadn't been particularly good at "thread-the-needle" drills at the academy, but always managed to pass the tests. Now, she was getting to do it for real. "Sit tight, First Mate. I need to loop to get in the proper position. I'll be coming in hot. Margoles, out." Fully fifty times the size of the "Hawk's Wing," the dreadnaught was a war wagon, pure and simple. The unofficial motto of the Dreadnaught Class was, "Kill It. No Prisoners." Quillan's training had given her extensive knowledge of the Alliance fleet and the dreadnaught in particular as she was groomed to fly one. Dreadnaughts sported massive firepower and high-altitude atmospheric capabilities which allowed them to act as aircraft carrier, battleship, or bomber. It wasn't agile enough for a destroyer role, but with its suite of weapons, bombs, and fast attack fighters, no one in his right mind was dumb enough to mess with one. The armor plating was heavy enough to repel light plasma fire. How it had been breached by an asteroid was beyond Quillan's understanding. Quillan took the flight stick and accelerator lever in hand and spoke to Ship. "Take it off automatic. I'm in control." "Manual controls engaged. Caution is advised." Standard reply from a standard ship in a standard universe. Quillan banked the ship and swung into a wide loop to line up with the half open bay door, which was a mere pinpoint of light from this distance. She disengaged the empty cargo container to make her ship more maneuverable. The container's own "dumb" computer and thrusters would hold it stationary; she'd come back for it later. "Ship, scan the field and let me know if anything's gonna intercept us. I don't want to fly into a rock." "At current trajectory, nothing will interfere for another six minutes. Afterward, there will be a two-minute window of opportunity, then the path will be blocked for nine hours, twenty eight minutes." Quillan slammed the accelerator to the stops. Arrowing in, Quillan's focus was wholly on the open door, her hands making small corrections to trajectory and speed. The "Hawk's Wing" shot forth at more than eleven thousand meters per second. Either she would succeed, or she would die. No leeway. "Ship, prepare for collision. At this rate of speed, I'll probably pass out when we get inside. Full forward defense shields. Zero shields anywhere else." Shit...shoulda called up the schematics on that bay first...find out how much room there was to play with. Too late now. "FULL BRAKE!" Collision alarms. Door. Light. Wall. Noise. Dark. That hurt. A lot. Deep breath. The ship smells funny. Too clean-smelling. Quillan opened her eyes and focused them to see a white medibot perched atop the instrument panel, one of its many arms holding an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. Her head was held in place by two of its other arms. Flicking her eyes downward, she could see that a fourth and fifth arm were tending to a deep gash on her upper thigh. Looking back up, she saw past the medibot to the transparent aluminum windshield. A huge hole had opened in it and she realized that part of the seat next to her head was totally gone. The hole in the windshield had been patched, rather hastily it appeared, with an opaque airpatch. That meant that the bay hadn't been repressurized and she would have suffered the same fate as Ilana and countless other space travelers. Remaining still, she let the bot do its job. It would let her up soon enough. "Ship, give me a damage report," Quillan ordered, her voice muffled by the oxygen mask. "Forward thrusters, inoperative. Dorsal thrusters, inoperative. Ventral thrusters, inoperative. Starboard thrusters, inoperative. Port thrusters, one half. Reverse thrusters, destroyed. Forward view port, destroyed. Forward telemetry, destroyed. Scanning suite, destroyed. Search beacon, inoperative. Hull integrity forward of cockpit, zero percent. Forward defense shield generator, destroyed. Main engines one and three, inoperative. Main engines two and four, one quarter. Starboard airlock integrity, zero percent. Port..." "Cancel," she said rapidly. "What blew past my shoulder and ripped the seat apart?" "A plastic bottle containing potable water. The bulkhead behind you is no longer airtight." The medibot finished the job on her leg and retracted its arms. Still holding her head immobile and forcing her to stay seated, it retracted the oxygen mask, determining that since she was fully conscious, she no longer needed it. It spoke in a pleasant, sexy female voice; that of First Mate Alice Nine. "Hello, Captain. Welcome aboard the Alliance Dreadnaught Thomas A. Parker. Atmosphere has been cleared from all decks and directed to the bay in which you now sit. It's safe to exit your ship, if you wish. As you move through the ship, I'll pressurize the section directly in front of you. Please pause for a few seconds between sections, so that I can do this effectively. I assure you that once the main power has been restored, the entire ship will be fully pressurized. Please follow the medibot as it takes you to the proper areas. I will see you shortly." The medibot extended two legs to the decking, retracted all of its arms, and climbed down from the console. Once there, it extended four more legs and began moving toward the port airlock. Quillan stood gingerly, placing her weight on her damaged leg. There was no pain. She bent slightly to look at the hole in her pants, expecting to see stitches closing the gash. A smooth bare leg. The gash was gone; completely healed. She turned to look at the hole in the wall. It was smaller than the one in the windshield and a little more ragged. The wall of the airlock on the other side was still wet from the water, and had a large dent from the impact. At high speed, water could be as hard as concrete. It was a tedious trip to the generator deck; having to stop every 12 seconds in the dim emergency lighting and wait for the door ahead of her to open so she could proceed through the ship. The medibot dutifully waited at each door, gently tapping a foot in an impatient way. Odd. Nice mimicry of human impatience, though. Quillan surmised that what should normally have been a five minute walk, took close to a half hour. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 00 They reached a door marked, "Engineering Personnel Only. Access 3 and above. WARNING – SUBZERO TEMPERATURES Appropriate envirosuit required." The medibot skittered over to a wall locker and tapped it, indicating that she open it. An array of sizes of suits similar to a spacesuit sat inside. She selected the appropriate size, slid out of her flight suit and began dressing in the claustrophobic envirosuit. The fabric was thin enough that her manual dexterity and touch were maintained while providing oxygen and protection to the intense cold she would experience. She checked and rechecked the connections around her ankles, leaving her gloves for last. Settling the helmet on her head, she carefully felt all around the collar, making sure it was seated correctly. Satisfied, she drew on the gloves and visually checked the seals. As the second glove seated with a click, Quillan was slightly startled by a head-up display on her faceplate accompanied by the gentle hiss of air. Detailed information of the suit's integrity scrolled up: external and internal temperatures, external air quality, internal pressure; even a small icon of the suit itself, the connections glowing green. "Fantastic!" she exclaimed. A soothing male voice replied in her ear. "Greetings. I am En Ess Four One. I will monitor conditions around you and warn of danger. Please state your name as your bio-signs are not listed in the ship's complement of personnel." "Captain Quillan Margoles." "And what is our task today, Captain?" "We need to restart the main generator, apparently." "I was not informed of this. Please stand by while verification is in progress." The suit froze. Quillan tried moving her arms so she could examine the suit again, but she was stuck solid. Great prisoner restraint, if needed. The suit unlocked itself with no notice and Quillan stumbled against the bulkhead, her helmet thunking into the metal wall. "Captain Margoles, I have been ordered to open a channel with First Mate Nine. Is this permitted?" "Oh, hell yeah," she replied. She needed to hear the voice of someone she (sort of) knew. A beep sounded, followed by the smooth sexy voice of the first mate. "Hello, Captain," came Nine's familiar voice through the headset. "I'll guide you through the start up procedures. Please don't take any action until I tell you. It is imperative that you listen to my instructions fully. I will let you know when to make the appropriate movements. Is this alright?" "First mate, I'm fully qualified to start the gennies on a dreadnaught," replied Quillan, slight annoyance leaking through. "I spent six years at the academy, specializing in these monsters." "All respect is due and given, Captain," Nine said, smoothly. "Records indicate that you were trained and checked out on the Dreadnaught Generations Five, Six, and Seven. This is a Generation Nine prototype. Many features have been removed and others added. A misstep could prove fatal." Oh, shit, thought Quillan. Now it all made sense. She was talking to the ship itself. Alice Nine; Generation Nine. A thought occurred to her. "You say that you're the only one aboard, right?" "Other than you, Captain, I am the only one capable of full awareness," replied Alice. "No other human is alive on this thing?" asked Quillan, cautiously. A self-aware artificial intelligence? "You are correct, Captain," came the reply. "I am the Algorithmic Logistical Intelligent Control Entity, Ninth Generation. Alice Nine. I was made self-aware on Earth date, 10 September, two years ago." "So, you're an artificial intelligence?" "Yes, Captain." "Are you recording this conversation?" "Yes, Captain." "Mark this time in your records and pay special attention to my next statement," a sly grin on Quillan's face. "I, Quillan Samantha Margoles, hereby lay claim to this ship and all systems and items on board by Right of Salvage after determining that no other qualified sentient life forms are aboard. This message is to be sent to all proper authority groups upon restoration of communications. In the event that this vessel is found by military authority before comms are restored, the Right of Salvage is to remain effect until decided upon in a court of military law. Do you understand?" "Yes, Captain. You are now in command of this vessel," came the sexy voice of the computer. "I have updated the ship's log and systems with your details. You may now travel anywhere on this ship." "Yeahhhhhhhhhh," said Quillan, a huge smile on her face. "Open this door and let's get to work." An hour later, the air handlers came on, pressurizing spaces and providing clean air to the entire ship. Somewhere in the bowels of the ship, the water purifiers started circulating clean water. Refrigerators hummed into life. Lights on all decks came up as the emergency lights were extinguished. By fits and spurts, every undamaged system came up. There were enough undamaged systems aboard that she could live comfortably aboard this ship for the rest of her life...if that asteroid field outside would leave her alone. Have to take care of that shit. She shed her envirosuit and dressed again in her shabby flight suit, neatly placing the envirosuit back inside the locker; her old military habits had returned. She wandered back out into the hallway, looking up and down it. The medibot hot on her heels like a faithful dog. "Alice, is there anything like a tour guide on board this vessel? Something other than the medibot.? "The medibot is the only working locomotive force aboard at the moment. All other robots were damaged during our test jump," came Alice's voice from the small bot. "Okay," said simply. "What's next to get us out of this belt?" As if in response, a tremendous dull thud resounded through the corridors, the result of a fairly large asteroid slamming into the hull. "My shields are active, and will be at full capacity in about thirteen minutes. They are charging as well as warding off the offending asteroids, so they are taking longer than normal. Repair systems have also been activated. This ship is capable of self-repair now that the generators are online. Once shields are restored to full capacity, I will maneuver out of the asteroid field, if that is permitted. May I suggest that you rest and eat, Captain? We can talk more once you have selected your meal, if you wish." Led by the medibot, Quillan entered the dining hall. The tables were the only things standing as they were bolted to the floor. Dishes, chairs and appliances littered the room, most being twisted and broken. Quillan picked her way through the rubble and managed to scrounge up a few things to munch on, along with a couple cans of military issue beer. She uprighted a chair and gazed around the room with a sigh...long cleanup process here. "All right, Alice," she said at long last, with a mouthful of food. "Tell me EXACTLY what this ship is and what it does." She took another bite of a surprisingly tasty brown flat rectangle and washed it down with a few gulps of beer. "The full denomination of this ship is the Alliance Dreadnaught Class, Generation Nine Light Atmospheric and Deep Space Mobile Command and Control Attack Platform, Number Four, Experimental. There are five prototypes in this series, each with varying capabilities and designed to interact with one another in an attack or defense cluster. Depending upon the scenario, one specific ship is designated as the leader and, by linking with the other four ships' computers, presents a formidable adversary," lectured the medibot in Alice's voice. Quillan digested the information, then spoke. "So, theoretically, I could hook up with the other dreadnaughts and we could raise a lotta hell around the galaxy, right?" "In theory, you are correct, Captain. However, certain criteria must be met before that can happen." "Such as...?" asked Quillan. "The commander of each ship must be a qualified captain as verified by his or her standing within the Alliance military sector. As you are listed as discharged under honorable conditions, you are disqualified. Therefore, the command and control structural link between computers is severed. You can cannot control them, and likewise, they cannot control this ship. You have also acquired this ship by Right of Salvage. All data classified above level three, which was your clearance at the time of discharge, is restricted until or unless authorized or removed by verified military officials." Another swig of beer. "I can correlate it," acknowledged Quillan. "So, how in Samarji's Hell did you manage to wind up in the middle of a known asteroid belt?" "There was a computational error in the Fold Drive coordinates." "Fold Drive? The theory of folding space? Take a sheet of paper, fold it in half, and your pen only has to travel though it a half millimeter instead of drawing a line down the page. Same principle. I'd heard that somebody was working on it," Quillan leaned back in her seat, holding her beer as she propped her feet on the table. "Correct again, Captain," said the medibot, as it clambered up onto the table; its eye sensors staring unblinkingly at the captain. "As you know, computers are incapable of making mistakes and can only process the data given. In this case, the given data was wrong. This ship was supposed to fold to Earth-Actual. Instead, we folded into the Omicron-Theta 4 star system. Omicron-Theta 4 is in the process of going nova. The former captain, pardon the expression, 'freaked out,' upon arrival to that system and entered the next fold coordinates (here) manually, ordering an instant fold before objections could be voiced. Upon arrival here, his mental instability took over and he ordered an immediate evacuation of this quadrant." "So...where'd they go?" "I must reaffirm that most systems aboard this vessel are experimental and computers can only process the data they are given. At the evacuation command, the personnel were instantaneously teleported to their respective life pods and jettisoned." Alice's voice seemed to change; become saddened. "As we are in the middle of an asteroid field, and none of the life pods had defensive shields, they were all destroyed." Quillan's eyes shot open, staring at the ceiling. She dropped her gaze to stare at the medibot's expressionless "face." "How many people were evacuated?" A cold dread ran through the redhead as she asked. She dropped her can at the answer. "Three hundred and six." The medibot's head dropped, seeming to examine the table. Now that the generators were online and running at full capacity, things around the ship progressed rapidly. With the shields fully restored, they moved out of the asteroid field, bulling their way through; the shields merely shrugging off the huge rocks. On Quillan's orders, self-maintenance systems kicked into high gear. Alice transferred a techbot routine into the medibot (since the medibot had the manual dexterity needed), and set it to work repairing two techbots. Within hours, the techbots had repaired the rest of the techbots, In turn, the techbots repaired the heavy repair robots who got to work processing metal from the embedded asteroids and reconstructing the ship's hull. When the last repair robot was restored, the techbots got to work fixing the antenna arrays and tactical systems which were severely damaged in the Omicron-Theta 4 mishap, and totally destroyed by the asteroid field. During this time, Quillan pored over technical and engineering specifications, noting that the more robots that were controlled by Alice, the less processing power was available for other ship functions. While the ship could be entirely controlled by one person, even with everything running optimally, effectiveness would be greatly reduced. Hence, three hundred crew were needed. For five full days, the ship sat on the edge of the asteroid field while it repaired itself. Quillan had explored the ship, guided by a techbot which Alice had inhabited. The hyper-advanced AI, way beyond anything currently in service, was capable of "air wiring" portions of itself into virtually any system on board. It could leapfrog from one robot to the next in the blink of an eye. The techbot was the most human-looking of the robots. Not every waking moment was devoted to studying the ship's incredibly complex systems, however. Quillan took breaks throughout the days to wander around, familiarizing herself with the passages and compartments, exercising in the ship's gym, or spending time alone in her quarters. She rubbed her eyes and stretched, the familiar scent of her own sweat wafting from her armpits to her nostrils. The clock showed that she had been studying for almost twenty hours straight, her meals being brought to her by a small servbot (the only one on the ship). Time for a shower and a little relaxation. Exiting the bridge of the massive ship, she took two steps to her personal cabin. The captain's quarters were always situated as close to the bridge as possible in case of emergency. Although cameras were present throughout the ship, none were present in private quarters; only basic medical sensors were allowed in order to monitor a crewman's well-being. Quillan shed her scuffed and worn boots, drab gray flight suit, bra, and panties and kicked it all into a pile in the corner. She'd do her laundry later. Striding across the large room to the bathroom, she paused in front of the full-length mirror to give herself the once over. A few creases on the face, nothing major; adds a bit of character there, really. She grimaced to expose her teeth. Even and white, as they should be. Her tousled red hair needed to be washed, getting kinda oily; no gray, though. Her C-cup breasts were still firm, no sign of sagging there. Flat tummy; a hint of fat creeping in. More exercise would take care of that in a jiffy. Butt: firm and round. Gotta trim the red bush, though, starting to look like a Martian jungle. Legs, two nice ones. No scar on the thigh from the crash. After studying for so long, she knew the reason. The med section was beyond state-of-the-art and sported almost instant healing capability. In fact, this whole ship was way beyond anything running. Overall, she rated her body at a solid nine on the Sex Appeal Meter. She needed a tan, but supposed that if she dressed right, she could turn a head or ten. Walking into the bathroom, she stepped into the voice-controlled shower and ordered it to forty-five degrees Celsius. The hot water cascaded over her, its heat soothing and comfortable. She placed both hands on the wall and reveled in it, letting it splash directly on her scalp. "Shampoo, strawberry." The shower nozzle emitted a small amount of shampoo and beeped when the proper quantity had been dispensed. Quillan pulled her head out of the stream and massaged her scalp, pushing her head back under the jets to rinse it. "Body soap, strawberry." The shower again beeped when the quantity had been dispensed and Quillan stepped back to lather herself. She retrieved a washcloth from the wall bracket, wet it, soaped it and scrubbed her face, taking her time. She rinsed her face in the stream from the shower head and then watched the small trails which appeared as the cloth was run down each slender arm. She languidly ran the cloth around her slim neck and over her chest, lightly brushing her nipples with the rough fabric. Moving the cloth around her breasts, she was careful to wash the crease on the underside of each very carefully. This felt so good... Carefully, gently, she moved the cloth lower to wash her flat stomach, and around her vulva. Crooking a finger with the cloth around it, she ran it through her slit and was startled by the sensation; one which she had nearly forgotten. The last time she had felt that was... ---------------------------------------- Quillan moaned as Ilana lightly tipped her clit with a fingernail. Ilana's touch was incredible! The dark-haired beauty knew how to use her fingers and nails to get the maximum effect. Ilana ever-so-gently scraped her index fingernail across Quillan's swollen nub, eliciting another sighing moan from the redhead. It was all Quillan do not to squeeze her thighs together and trap that marvelous hand on her forever. Ilana pulled her finger back and blew cool air on Quillan's clit, sending another shock into Quillan's core. "S-s-stop...l-l-lover..." panted Quillan. "Fifteen orgasms in an hour is all I can take." Ilana crawled up Quillan's body, kissing the naked skin as she went, sucking a nipple. "Only fifteen?" she asked between kisses, chuckling. "Lightweight." ---------------------------------------- Leaning against the wall, Quillan moaned out loud as she inserted a finger into herself, letting the palm of her hand rest on her mound. Folding her thumb inward, the inserted it into her slit and began moving her hand back and forth, letting her thumb stroke her clit, her finger pumping in and out of her. Her breathing grew ragged. The wet washcloth dropped to the floor with a plop as she massaged her breasts and tweaked her nipples, tugging and pinching and rolling them. Her knees grew weak. Her lips parted. A small moan escaped as everything around coalesced and separated at the same time. The room darken/lightened. The water was/was not. The wall was cold. The wall was warm. Quillan's body bucked and shook as her breath hitched over and over in her throat. Her closed eyes suddenly flew open wide. She threw her head back and screamed. The scream of ecstasy seeming to go on and on as her being was consumed by a pleasure she hadn't experienced in a long time. Panting and gasping for breath, now seated on the floor of the shower (when, exactly, she had come to be in this position, she didn't know), she placed her head between her legs, elbows resting on her knees and let the water simply spray on her. Slowly, she regained her mental faculties and slowly stood to rinse the rest of the soap from her. She stepped from the shower onto a small grid. Warm air issued from the grid in the floor as well as one in the ceiling. Twisting and turning, raising her arms and spreading her legs, she let the blowers do their jobs and dry her off. Wow. That was mind blowing. It felt goooooood... Stepping into the main room, she froze upon spying the bed. A neatly folded Alliance uniform sans the piping denoting any rank lay there. On the floor were a pair of highly polished Alliance-issue boots. She glanced into the corner where she had kicked her clothes earlier. They were gone. "Alice," Quillan spoke to thin air. "Yes, Captain?" the sultry voice of the computer answered. "Where's my flight suit?" "It's in the laundry being cleaned as we speak, Captain. Your boots are being repaired and refurbished also. Do you wish to have them returned in their present condition?" came the voice from speakers hidden within the walls. Quillan smirked. "No, Alice. That's fine. I'll wear this outfit. Why is the rank piping missing?" "Since you are not a member of the military and it is illegal for you to wear a proper uniform, this one was taken from Spares. Of course, since this is your ship, you may walk around in any state of dress or undress you wish." Quillan toyed with the idea of wandering around in the buff, but decided that she'd just feel weird and donned the uniform. It fit like a glove. Likewise, the boots fit as if they were made for her feet. She exited the room and headed for the ship's mess hall to eat. At long last, Alice reported that ship was fully functional. "First thing I want," said Quillan, "is a scan of all nets for word of this ship. Access databases back to the day it was expected to return." She was seated comfortably in the command chair, one leg over the other at the knee. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 00 "What would you like to know, Captain?" the techbot at her side asked with its sexy purring voice. "For starters, what did they do about it?" Quillan turned to the bot. "Standard Alliance search protocols were initiated. After the prescribed twenty-four hour waiting period, the last known trajectory was determined and a squadron of Tactical Search Vessels were dispatched along that line to the Omega-Theta 4 system. The search was canceled after 365 Earth days. This ship was presumed lost." Quillan's eyebrows shot up. "365 days? How long have you been here?" "398 days had elapsed before you arrived." "Waitwaitwait," Quillan said, as she shook her head trying to comprehend the enormity of the situation. "This ship sat in the middle of that shitstorm for over a year and didn't get totally destroyed? How is that possible?" "I am unable to take any form of action other than defensive without direct authorization from the captain. The replacement of your uniform is one such action that was authorized, no doubt for convenience' sake," replied Alice. "As the captain had vacated the vessel, all that could be done was to keep the shields up as long as possible. Even self-repair must be authorized by the captain or other designated individual, all of whom were no longer aboard." "Why didn't the captain authorize self-repair as needed? That's just plain stupidity." "Since this is a prototype vessel, certain limits and restraints were put in place. Self-repair is one. Attack is another." "'Attack' I can understand," said Quillan as she ran her hand through her short red hair, "but self-repair? Buncha idiots..." Quillan clapped her hands and rubbed them together, taking a deep breath. "All right, First Mate Alice Nine, now hear this. As captain of this vessel, you are hereby authorized for self-repair using any and all necessary means to insure that this ship is running at peak performance. This does not include changes to programming in your own neural network. Those have to go through me or an individual to be designated by me at a future time. Confirm these orders." Quillan had said it all in one breath. She was pleased with herself and sat back with a smile. "Your orders are confirmed, Captain. Self-repair is authorized. Mainframe program changes are not authorized," Alice replied succinctly. Quillan's smile turned to slight annoyance. "Are you making fun of me, Alice?" A hint of humor in Alice's voice. "Oh, no, Captain. I would never do that." The techbot's illuminated left eye blinked out momentarily in the semblance of a wink. Quillan chuckled. "Alright, Alice, give me a display of the ship's systems and put it on the main screen, please." Quillan had added the "please" without even thinking. Her practiced eye noted slight modifications to the drive capabilities. More efficient. "Alice, please compute a course to the edge of the Sol system." "Course computed, Captain. There is a flaw in the computation, however. With permission, I will repair it. I know what is wrong with that part of the programming. May I make the necessary corrections?" "Please do. I don't want to wind up like the last bunch. And give me an error percentage, please." The lighting dimmed for a few seconds as the enormous processing power was stretched to its limit, changing billions of lines of code in order to effect the noted corrections. The lights came back up. "All corrections have been made, Captain. The probability of error is now less than one trillionth of one percent. That's the best I can do. I've run over one hundred thousand test folds through the simulation and the virtual ship arrived within four microns of a fixed point in all cases. Does this meet your approval?" One hundred thousand tests in less than ten seconds? No wonder the lights dimmed. "It does, Alice. Fold us to the specified galaxy, please." ---------------------------------------- Quillan Margoles, thirty-three years of age, stood five feet, seven inches tall. Her flaming red hair, cut short, framed her angular face. A few freckles were scattered here and there. Her blue eyes were fixed on the view screen before her as she stood up and strode forward a few paces. Her black jumpsuit accentuated her curves and highlighted her plentiful breasts. "EarthCom Central, this is the Dreadnaught Thomas A. Parker on station at coordinates Zulu Delta Foxtrot Seven Seven One. I wish to be placed in direct contact with Alliance President Cuthbertson. This ship has been seized under Right of Salvage and is in the command of Captain Quillan S. Margoles. Any attempt to take this ship by force will be met with the full defensive capabilities of this ship. I don't wish to start a fight; I merely wish to arrive at a beneficial outcome for all concerned. Acknowledge, please." "Thomas A. Parker, this EarthCom Central. Be advised that Alliance vessels are en route to your location. You are to hold position and stand by until you are relieved by Admiral MacGuffin. Any attempt to leave your current position will be considered a hostile act. Likewise, any detected powering up of weapons will be considered hostile and you will be fired on." Male voice. Angry male voice. Aren't they all angry when they're surprised by a ghost ship which popped up on their sensor network and nailed 'em with their pants down? The answer was as she expected. The military never wanted to let go of any piece of hardware, let alone the latest and greatest. "Alice, keep the shields up. Hold us steady here. Transmit the details of ship abandonment and every detail since my arrival to News Command, Judicial Command, Military Command, and Tactical Command, in that order, please." Four beeps sounded one second apart to indicate the command had been carried out. Quillan wanted the news nets to get hold of the information before anyone else. She knew that Judicial Command would start ruling on this salvage immediately. Notifying MilCom and TacCom was a courtesy. "While you're at it, show me the positions of the closing craft along with their designations." The main viewer showed a massive armada of over one hundred ships of all sizes converging on the Thomas A. Parker. Two of them were dreadnaughts. Class Sevens from the looks of the thrusters. "Thomas A. Parker, this is EarthCom. Lower your shields and prepare to be boarded." Quillan rolled her eyes and replied, "You really expect me to listen to a flunky who's located several hundred thousand miles away? Fuck you. Patch me through to whoever's in command of the closing group." The communication panel started beeping for attention, several lights on it flickering at once. Quillan grinned mirthfully. This was quite amusing. She opened all channels at once. "Okay," she said, "Who's first?" "This is Captain Latoff Ivanov, I command the Vulture Attack Squadron. We will blow you out of the sky if you don't lower your shields." "This is Admiral MacGuffin, in command of the intercept fleet. You wished to speak with me?" "Military Tribunal Judge Harrison, Captain. We've reviewed your case." That was fast. "MilCom Fleet Admiral Garrison, standing by, Captain Margoles." "Tactical Command Fleet Admiral Louisa Daltoni. We want our ship back and will take it, little girl." Quillan chuckled. "Captain Latoff, sorry. This meeting is for the grownups. Buh-bye." She closed the connection, cutting him off before he could reply, and spoke to the rest. "Ladies and Gentlemen, you WILL be polite or I will end your part of this conversation and you will wait for me to contact you. Got it?" "Understood." "Yes, Captain." "Last chance, give us... *grumble* All right." "Of course, Captain." Quillan poked around the console a moment and figured out how to bring up the visual screen, giving each person their own quarter. A small legend in the lower left corner of each display showed who was who. "Now that we are all together and chatting amiably... Admiral MacGuffin, I suggest you halt your vessels where you are. You might even want to turn them around. Am I right, Judge Harrison?" Harrison looked to be pushing eighty years old, but the sparkle in his eyes was testament to his mental capacity. He was the same judge who had given the final disposition in Quillan's case those many years ago. He even winked slightly in recognition. "You are correct, Captain Margoles. This tribunal reviewed the records which were sent to us and, after determining that they had not been tampered with, came to the unanimous decision that Right of Salvage stands in this case. The search for your vessel was called off over a month ago; the ship, crew and all equipment were officially listed as 'lost due to unknown causes.' The distress and vocal beacons were in continuous operation for over a year. Military loss, your gain. Congratulations on your find. "However, Captain, should you attack any Alliance vessel or territory unprovoked, the military is authorized to respond with everything in its arsenal. You are hereby granted full rights and privileges to the ship and her systems..." TacCom Admiral Daltoni's jaw dropped and veins stood out on her forehead. They were fairly large veins, too. That woman was headed for an aneurism if she wasn't careful. "Judge! Are you out of your mind? You realize that you've just granted full access to systems and hardware which were classified above level 3? We need to..." Quillan's finger disconnected the woman, mid-tirade. "Anyone else want to be rude?" she asked lightly, finger poised over the panel. The remaining three shook their heads. "Very well. Judge, please finish, sir." Judge Harrison, continued somberly. "As I was saying, you are hereby granted full rights and privileges to the ship and her systems provided that you allow a team of five people aboard your vessel to declassify or download the necessary data in order that it be rendered safe. Do you understand these terms and conditions?" "Thank you, Judge. I understand and acknowledge all of the aforementioned terms and hereby agree to them." Quillan's mind went into overdrive thinking of what needed to be done before the decommissioning crew could arrive. MilCom Fleet Admiral Garrison spoke up. "Judge, Admiral MacGuffin. May I speak to you both on a private channel, please? Captain Margoles, will you excuse us for a moment?" She nodded, smiling, and the screen blanked. Turning her head, she asked the techbot behind her, "Alice, can they still hear us?" "Yes, Captain. The video is active, too. They can hear and see everything you do." A little disgruntled, Quillan turned back to the screen. "Alice," she asked, speaking up a little, "is that armada still inbound on our position?" Quillan had not been idle in the five days during which the ship was repairing itself. She had read everything she could find about ship systems. Her speed-reading ability was remarkable. She had managed to get through the entire engineering section and ninety percent of the weapons and defensive systems data during that time. Her memory retention and recall had been verified by several sources (grade school through the academy, along with numerous independent psychiatric evaluations) at between 99.379 percent and 99.999 percent. Her mind was a sponge. "Yes, Captain. The first ship will arrive at our position in nine minutes. We will be within their firing range in two minutes." "That's fine. We have a one minute firing advantage. Target every inbound ship and send a firing solution to them. Plasma array targeted on the lead vessel. Charge all weapons. Hold fire," Quillan said conversationally. "Captain, as first mate pro-tempore it is my duty to inform you that they are authorized to fire on us in that case." "Just do it, please. I'm well aware of the fire order," Quillan replied smoothly and without aggressiveness. The screen lit up to display an overall view of the armada, with the planet Neptune hanging in the background. Each ship on the screen was suddenly surrounded by red brackets with a four- or five-digit number directly beneath it. The number changed constantly, counting down towards zero. It denoted range to target. Several dozen ships in the attacking group turned bright orange/yellow as their braking thrusters were fired, some even turning around and heading back to Earth-Actual. The two dreadnaughts and a few of the larger attack craft kept coming, those being better equipped to handle the firepower of the Thomas A. Parker. "Captain, this is Admiral MacGuffin. Please don't do that, Madam. I've just gotten three resignations and fourteen requests for transfer to desk duty." The voice on the other end was mildly amused. "I need to change my underwear, as well." "Admiral," Quillan said, as she grinned charmingly into the display before her, watching the ships hightail it away. "I made the suggestion to halt your progress. I was merely reinforcing my statement. I can't help the fact that the captains under your command are scared of a single ship." The three faces appeared on the screen again, all staring at Quillan. A slight nod from the judge told her that he approved of her bluff. Admiral MacGuffin sported an ear to ear grin, while Garrison's face remained passive. He suddenly winked. The judge spoke first. "Captain Margoles, I shall take my leave. The rest of this conference is just between the three of you. My personal number is displayed on your communications panel. If there are any problems with this conference, please give me a call. Remember, the ball is in your court. As long as the conditions of the judgment are met within twenty-four hours, there will be no problem. Good day and safe travels to you." He signed off, the other two views expanding automatically to fill the screen. "Captain," broke in Alice. "My Theta One encryption protocol has been enabled by MilCom. This is normally reserved for councils of war. Would you like for me to disable that feature?" Quillan sauntered back to her command chair, her well-rounded ass swaying provocatively for the audience on the screen behind her. A little eye candy never hurt. She sat, demurely crossing her legs at the ankles, leaning back and resting her arms on those of the chair. "No, Alice," she said. "Can they control any other part of this ship?" "Yes, Captain. They can access my root functions and take this ship if they wish." "Shut it out and scan for backdoors. Place my vocal pattern as a temporary code on it. I'll update the security features when this is over. Let me know if any other attempts are made at security breaches." "Yes, Captain." Turning toward the screen, Quillan waggled her finger and shook her head. "Naughty, naughty, gentlemen," she spoke. "What is this 'conference' about?" Admiral Garrison, in charge of Military Command (MilCom, for short) which oversaw all military operations in the Alliance, somewhat abashedly cleared his throat to speak. He had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Captain Margoles, we would to formally offer you an employment opportunity. You are, of course, well within your rights to refuse, but we would be pleased if you will hear the terms and conditions of employment." Quillan punched a few buttons on her armrest and saw that the remaining ships in the armada had halted their encroachment on her position. Using the same panel, she silently ordered all weapons to power down and the targeting sequence nullified. Several chirps from the panel acknowledged her commands. "Go on, Admiral. I'm listening." Both images looked slightly off their screens and as one man, heaved sighs of relief. Admiral MacGuffin looked to his right and nodded slightly, whereupon a black-clad figure, it's face just out of sight above the view of the camera, moved onto the screen. Quillan could tell it was a man, but that was all. "Captain," said Admiral Garrison, "should you accept our offer, you will be given a 'Letter of Marque and Reprisal' to be used at your discretion. Are you familiar with this term?" Quillan's eyebrow rose a millimeter. "One of my optional classes at the academy was in Old Earth History. I always found that portion of the class to be the best. Basically, the letter you're talking about turns me into a legal pirate. I can capture or destroy whatever I see fit as long as I have reasonable cause for my actions and it's not a part of the Alliance or about to become so. That about cover it? The last Letter of Marque ever issued was to the private company of Goodyear...a blimp, if memory serves, over eight hundred years ago in an action called 'World War Two.'" "Well done, Captain Margoles," said Admiral MacGuffin, the commander of the armada, as he leaned back in his chair and applauded slowly. "You will have almost total autonomy, but we will supply you with hardened targets from time to time. They MUST be hit within a specific time period. You may deal with them in your own manner and any 'spoils of war' are yours to keep. We would LIKE for you transmit any data you glean from these targets, but in most cases, we should already have that information." "It sounds good so far, Admirals," she replied hesitantly, "but I sense a few 'howevers' on the way." "Admiral MacGuffin," spoke Garrison. "It seems that we've made the right decision. She's very canny." "Well, Jim," said MacGuffin, using the supreme admiral's first name, "she was in line to graduate third in her class of eleven thousand." "All right, Captain Margoles, here's the bad part," said Garrison, matter-of-factly. "The 'Must Hits' will almost certainly have superior firepower and a higher classification of armor. Their responses will be quick and, most assuredly, devastating if they hit you. You WON'T be able to call us for reinforcements. We recommend that you build your own little army. You'll have to be self-sufficient. We WILL provide you with several small one- and two-man fighters for harassment purposes if needed. They've been stripped of any Alliance identification...sterilized, if you will. "Now for the upside. Your systems will remain fully operatinoal and under your complete control. We'll remove any and all codes, blocks, hindrances, and backdoors into your computer system and the ship will be one hundred percent yours at full capability if you accept. Every nut, bolt, bit, byte, experiment, and laser will be yours IF you complete all of the tasks assigned to you. If you don't complete the tasks, you'll be dead and the ship will be so much scrap metal, so the point will be moot." The panel at her arm blipped for attention. She excused herself for a moment and read the displayed message. The backdoor programs were boobytrapped. If she ordered their removal, she'd have a dead ship and be stuck at the edge of the solar system. Quillan uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her seat. "Correct me if I'm wrong," she said, calmly. "The tribunal found in my favor. If I refuse the offer of employment, the ship and rudimentary functions; power, life support, weapons, and a few other things are still mine, right? I just have to give up the classified shit which is on a list that will be transmitted to me. If I accept, though, every fucking thing on board is mine to keep after I win." "Perfect assessment, Captain. We'll even throw in some sterilized starter cash and give you an alias, if you wish, to sweeten the deal." Quillan smiled evilly. "Send my 'Letter of Marque and Reprisal' and pull the boobytraps out of MY ship's systems. I'll need fourteen days to forge documents and raise a crew. To prove that I'm on the up and up, you can leave one, and one only, boobytrap for remote wipe. After I contact you that I'm ready, you are to remove that trap." Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 00 "Very well, Captain," stated Garrison. "We agree to all demands. An encrypted recording of this entire incident has been transmitted to President Cuthbertson. Please stay on-station for eight hours while we send your fighters. Will twenty suffice?" Beneficial outcome reached. She was a pirate. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 01 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you all VERY much for reading and commenting on the prologue. It's because of people like you that I keep writing. In writing, ship names are traditionally italicized. In the first chapter, I requested that the editor italicize the name of Quillan's ship, "Thomas A. Parker." However, in writing this chapter, I quickly discovered that there are several ship names and couldn't ask that they all be italicized. That would simply be too demanding. So, from here on out, all ship names will be capitalized instead. ----------------------------------------- Chapter One First Mission A legal pirate. Who'd have thought that would ever happen? True to their word, the Alliance had presented Quillan with a Letter of Marque and Reprisal, allowing her to pick on anyone she wanted (as long as they were declared enemies). The only reason she needed was that they were the bad guys. She had the latest, greatest, biggest, baddest, buffest private ship in the galaxy, with all the latest gadgets and gizmos. She was also one of the wealthiest women in four solar systems. Being the wealthiest had its drawbacks. It meant that she had to steer well clear of a few systems where her face was well known (thanks to her case against the government). She had been a cargo pilot long enough to "drop off the scanners," as it were, but there were still people who followed her boring cargo runs with interest...her own groupies. Quillan's girlfriend and business partner had died violently and grotesquely in a depressurized airlock forty-seven kilometers above a drop site. Ilana had died for pig shit. Fertilizer to be supplied to the farmers of some rinky-dink ball of mud under harsh terraforming conditions. Quillan had repaired the errant stabilizer, tears obscuring her vision, set down, dropped the cargo, and lifted off. She didn't even wait around for payment for the load. She had set a course straight away from that puny little planet, on a heading out. She didn't care where. Just out. Stopping at way stations only to pick up necessary supplies, she traveled for months in as straight a line as she could maintain; the only other companion was Ship, the control computer. Then, she discovered an abandoned military ship stuck in an asteroid field. Several days later, she owned it; lock, stock, and artificial intelligence named Alice. Now, she was going to raise hell. Legally. ----------------------------------------- FLASHPOINT BREAK BREAK BREAK BEGIN ENCRYPT PROTOCOL THETA 1 CHECK SECURE TO: CAPTAIN, DN9 THOMAS A PARKER FROM: MILCOM ACTUAL Captain Margoles, please speed your recruiting process. Mission critical, time sensitive. You have seven (7) days to bring crew to specs or use computer for aid. MISSION: Liberate crew of Destroyer ENFORCER on board way station target codenamed "Silver Pocket." Coordinates to follow Station crew expendable. Keep detainee casualties to a minimum. PRIORITY: Find detainee "Shamala Rescruon." Upon liberation of Shamala, contact MilCom, channel 7127. Mark ten days from transmission date. Prisoners will be moved on day eleven. FLASHPOINT CLEAR CLEAR CLEAR MESSAGE ENDS OPEN TRANSMIT - ALL CHANNELS You got it. Kisses. CLOSE TRANSMIT - ALL CHANNELS ----------------------------------------- "Alice," said Quillan, around a mouthful of food, as she sat in the deserted mess deck wearing only a bra and panties. "Scan the area around the target and tell me what's there." She took a swig of military issue beer; the ship's stores were full of it. It wasn't too bad, really. "The target orbits a large rogue asteroid one-half light year distant. There is nothing else of significance within one light year. The last ship to that station was to drop off the current slave lot over two months ago. They are awaiting transfer to Infernus' Purgatory and will be sold at auction," replied Alice. God, but that voice was hot. Just hearing it caused a tiny little tingle. Quillan made a mental note to research the real life owner of that voice. "The station is controlled by one overseer and one guard. Would you like for me to display their information?" "Yep," Quillan replied, as she took another bite of food and turned her head to look at the monitor. She almost choked. On the display were mugshots of two of the ugliest...they looked human (sort of). One had a short squat body; his head sat atop his shoulders and looked like a bowling ball (with eyes and mouth where the fingers would fit), his nose was mashed flat (how did he breathe through that thing?). No hair. Ears like handles on a Star Run Trophy. His name was Agl Nempkin, the overseer. The second was just as weird looking. The first thing Quillan noticed were the enormous rounded cheeks, as if an errant plastic surgeon had implanted golf balls. His nose was razor thin and long, like an extinct flamingo's beak. His ears were impossibly small, the exact opposite of the first one's. He was the guard, Mak Lompilin. "Station defense, offense, and assessment, please." The view switched to a 3D look at the station, red arrows pointing at certain spots on the hull. "Stanislav Mark III computer-controlled laser turrets at these points. The computer is even dumber than the one you had on your old vessel, pardon my saying so. Level Two Quad Alpha variable phase shielding. Our pinpoint lasers will punch through with only a one percent drop in power. Her hull is standard six-inch steel plating. One external pedestrian door provides access to the station. It is secured by a simple open-close push button wall panel. Standard radar which cannot see around or through the asteroid. The future slaves are here..." The station rotated and a block of rooms glowed green. Another, smaller area, lit up in blue. "This is the command center. Both men stay here unless checking the future slaves. The men are equipped with rudimentary Manlinger slug-throwers. Threat level: One. And that's only because the scale will not allow me to mark it as 'Zero.'" Quillan burst into laughter. ----------------------------------------- An hour later, Quillan sat comfortably in her command chair, watching the screen. She was dressed once again in her black bodysuit. The view showed a long range shot of the target designated as "Silver Pocket." What a piece of shit. It was dented and scarred, that particular model being about a hundred fifty years old. It had definitely seen better days. They had folded to within twenty-five thousand miles after confirming that the radar would not be able to detect them outside of ten thousand miles. "Alice, how close can you fold us to that station? I want to shock the shit out of them." "Direct line of sight is always the best for computational purposes. I can put this ship within one meter of the outer hull, if you wish. Safety protocols will not allow me to fold any closer. As you know, since there is no atmosphere, there will be no air to push out of the way. However, there are very small asteroidal grains on random paths around the station. It will serve no purpose to embed them in this hull." "Noted," replied Quillan. "Target all of her laser turrets along with her shield emitter and all comm gear using the pinpoint lasers. Fold us directly next to the door. As soon as we're stationary, blast the shield emitter, then the comm gear and lasers in that order. Re-target the main viewing window on their command center. As soon as you have target acquisition on the main window, open a channel for a nice little chat." "All is in readiness, Captain." "Fold." His nearly flat nose caused him to snore. Loudly. Agl Nempkin's feet were propped up on a desk, his chair leaned back, his hands folded across the considerable paunch of his belly. Mak Lompilin checked his watch for the millionth time and turned up the sound on the Tri-D set to try to drown out the snores. Two more babysitting jobs and he could get the hell out of here, his debt to Agl paid in full. This bunch was just like any other. Men and women. Different colors, different sizes, different sexual preferences; not that it mattered what a fucking slave wanted in the way of a partner. Maybe he could get a job working the slave pens. Do a good job there, work his way up. Always nice to dream, but he knew he'd never do anything of importance. Mak reached into a grimy pocket to grab his last pack of smokes. Gotta make these babies last for a week and a half. Fuck. Where are they? He checked all of the multiple pockets on his tattered work suit. Where the fuck are my goddamn smokes? He scraped the desk with his arm and swept the piles of trash onto the deck, briefly examining the refuse for his pack of smokes. The room dimmed to almost black. At the same instant the alarm panel started blaring for attention and the station was rocked by explosions coming from everywhere at once. The shaking knocked him out of his chair. Agl was knocked over backwards and jumped to his feet, wideyed, screaming about an asteroid strike. ----------------------------------------- The Algorithmic Logistical Intelligent Control Entity, Alice, one of five of the most advanced computers in the galaxy (bordering on sentience), triggered the command to fold space. The flow of data coursing through her circuits would fry the second-best computer systems before a human could blink an eye. Alice had been designed to be able to control an entire fleet of smaller vessels, coordinating an assault entirely on her own. Power costs were enormous in performing such an action however, and it had been deemed unfeasible with the current technology. She had been reprogrammed to link up with her sisters instead. This would greatly reduce her power requirements, and allow all five to control an attack fleet. Power consumption was still fantastic, but it could be done. In theory. It had never been tested. What HAD been tested were her abilities to fold space as well as travel by standard propulsion. The first fold had threatened to destroy her entirely as the programming had several errors in it and she had folded into the area of a star about to go nova. Her immediate second folding into an asteroid belt had resulted in the deaths of her entire crew. The resulting year inside the asteroid belt had slowly degraded her systems. Without proper authorization, she couldn't fix herself. The redhead on the bridge had been her savior. She would do everything she could to keep that woman alive. For the merest moment of the briefest time imaginable, she was in two places at once. Her own external sensors recorded herself disappearing from one place and reappearing at another, twenty-five thousand miles away. Completing the fold, the previously targeted shield emitter on the small station before her vanished in a puff of precision fire generated by her own pinpoint laser. She adjusted the power output of the laser so as not to penetrate the hull and cause an air leak. There were humans inside who needed her protection. Also, she didn't want to disappoint her new owner. With the shields incapacitated, she waited what seemed an eternity of four point four milliseconds for the perturbing shields to totally dissipate. A full five hundred milliseconds for those laser arrays to target her? Pfff. She toyed with the idea of showing off for her captain and waiting until the arrays were pointed directly at her, but she was under orders. She melted them. Scanning the hull of the station and spotting the signal generating equipment, the humans called it communication gear, she virtually yawned and then destroyed those, too. Her full complement of weaponry took a lazy fifty milliseconds to target the main view port. She was in no rush. She opened a short range transmitter channel and forced the station's computer to tune to it. At a distance of three feet, she could pick up communications and the station could hear her captain. The entire process, from fold-trigger to open comms, had taken two hundred, forty-three thousandths of a second. ----------------------------------------- "Hi!" chirped Quillan, waving cheerfully into the viewer. Agl silenced the alarms and assessed the damage via readouts supplied by his computer. "Lady, I dunno who the fuck you are or what the fuck you think you're doing, but you just fuckin' fucked up in a severely trashmatter fuckin' way," he growled. Mak's jaw fell open at the sudden appearance of the behemoth which dwarfed the station. His smokes were completely forgotten. "Really?" asked Quillan. "Then, I guess I'd better hightail it outta here, huh? Before the bad guys show up?" "When Infernus hears of an attack on his fuckin' station, he's gonna come lookin' for blood." "Hmmmm..." said Quillan, thoughtfully. She was playing with this idiot and he didn't know it. Suddenly, her eyes grew wide and her fist went to her mouth in an expression of fear. "Not THE Infernus?!?! Coming for me???" "Bet that cute little ass of yours, toots," replied Agl, thinking he had the advantage. "Tell ya what, surrender your ship and agree to become my personal fuck slave and I forget all about this little incident." Quillan's face became hard, the playfulness gone. "I tell YOU what, you little shit." Her turn to growl. "Hand over those slaves and you and your little fuck buddy there can take a life pod to the nearest planet. I'll even be nice and send somebody to save your pitiful asses when I get around to it." "And, if I don't?" he asked, defiantly. "If you don't, then I let the air out of your section of the station and take the slaves anyway." Agl turned to Mak. "Go kill those fuckers back there. If we're gonna fuckin' die, this fuckin' bitch ain't gettin' nothin'." Mak's feet were in motion before his boss could finish the sentence. The view port blew outwards as it was pierced by a low-power plasma beam. Agl and Mak were blasted into space by the sudden loss of air pressure. They ended their lives as red stains on the side of the Dreadnaught THOMAS A PARKER. At the first sign of decompression aboard the station, airtight hatches slammed shut to prevent the escape of any more life giving air. The station was intact everywhere else. "Alice, I didn't order you to fire, that time," said the perplexed Quillan. She wasn't mad by any stretch, just slightly confused. "Captain, there was a ninety-nine point eight eight seven percent chance that the guard would reach the toxic gas lever before you could act. I thought it best to stop him. If you wish for me apologize for the loss of those men, I will do so. I was merely protecting this ship and your interests." What the hell? Quillan hadn't authorized anything close to that. She'd authorized self-repair, but protection of the ship or her crew? That was bordering on attack authorization. "No," Quillan mused. "No apology is needed. Dock with the station and send a few medibots over along with a heavy repair robot to get the prisoners. Have them escorted to the mess deck." "Of course, Captain." Three hours later, the prisoners were all safely aboard and the ship had folded to a point midway between solar systems. The medibots had scanned, poked, and prodded the new arrivals, determining that the worst of the prisoners, two women, had yeast infections. They were treated accordingly. All were undernourished. As soon as the prisoners were aboard, Quillan had ordered that the station be dissected by the ship's lasers and used the heavy repair robots to move the huge chunks of metal into several unoccupied storage bays, thereby providing the necessary materials for any future self-repairs. The small station had vanished as if it had never existed. Every head turned as Quillan strode into the mess hall, looking around at the grimy, filthy people that had been brought aboard. Her heart sank when she thought of what they had been through. A barrel of a woman, in her mid-forties at a guess, clad in filthy rags which barely served to cover her ample bosom and groin, stood up and locked eyes with the captain. Others in the room, those who were strong enough, stood also. Quillan smiled gently. The barrel-like woman approached with one hand out. "Thank you, ma'am," her strong voice said. Quillan took the proffered hand in her own and shook it, her grip firm. "I don't tolerate low lives," she replied, winking at the woman. "Welcome aboard the THOMAS A PARKER. You'll all have fresh clothes and quarters, shortly." She looked around the room again, speaking, "Is Shamala Rescruon among you?" The woman before Quillan turned and glanced around, then pointed at a thin, frail-looking woman, so malnourished that her ribs showed. Quillan nodded and smiled at Shamala. "I'll be back in just a few minutes. In the meantime, eat all you want." Quillan turned and gestured to the medibots arrayed around the room. "If any of you have problems or special needs, just ask one of the bots." She turned and strode from the room. When she arrived in her own quarters, she had Alice send an encrypted signal to the closest relay satellite. The satellite placed further encryption on the signal and squirted it to MilCom on Earth-Actual. MESSAGE BEGIN Silver Pocket nullified. All safe. Package retrieved. Hanging out in Nowheresville. Coordinates to follow. Love and Kisses. MESSAGE END Several seconds later, she received a reply. MESSAGE BEGIN That was fast. Hold station and await arrival of Dreadnaught MALCOLM H RAYBURN to take custody. Remaining software boobytrap will be removed at that time. Well done. MESSAGE END The rescued crew had been escorted to their own individual quarters. Alice reported that every shower head in those rooms had activated at the same time and that she was sending fresh uniforms for the new guests. "Captain," asked Alice. "Since these are bonafide military personnel, shall I have their uniforms reflect their appropriate ranks?" "Yes, by all means," replied Quillan, now seated on the command deck, the view of empty space displayed on the screen. "I may be a pirate, but I still have to answer to people. Extend every courtesy to them." "Of course, Captain," that oh-so-sexy voice purred. "Alice, you can call me Quillan if you want to," she said, then did a mental double-take. Had she really just given a computer a choice? Gotta watch that in the future. There was no reply from Alice. ----------------------------------------- Two of the largest spacecraft ever built hung nose to nose in the void of space. At a distance, the two appeared to be in engrossed in a passionate kiss. One of the ships was a pristine dull green from stem to stern, not a mark on her. The other was not as pretty: huge scrapes, scars, fire-blackened areas, two small red splotches, and missing paint adorned her hull. The ships were boxlike in shape with rounded edges, bristling with laser and particle cannon, several sliding ports hiding missile bays and plasma cannon; even a few rapid fire hypervelocity slug throwers which were designed solely to punch a neat nine-millimeter hole in an object...lethal in the vacuum of space. "Good day to you, Captain Margoles," the attractive man on the screen said. He looked to be in his early fifties, dark hair graying at the temples, light green eyes, cleft chin. His female crew members probably got wet when he walked past them. He seemed a little preoccupied as he spoke. His speech pattern was a wee bit breathless. "I'm Captain Alphonso Ramirez, in command of the MALCOLM H RAYBURN. We won't take too much of your time as we realize that you have better things to do. Unfortunately, our shimmerpads are inoperative at the moment, so we'll need to dispatch a standard shuttle for transfer. Please have the package standing by, then we'll be on our way." Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 01 Quillan ran her fingers through her red hair when she realized the reason for his semi-breathlessness. He was getting a blow job. During his introductory speech, a thump had been heard as the person performing oral sex on him had bumped her head (Quillan assumed it was a "she") on the desk above. "Certainly, Captain Ramirez," she replied, idly wondering how big his dick was. "When can I expect the software package to remove the boobytrap on my computer?" She decided to try to draw this out as long as possible. She wanted to make him squirm and watch him cum. Alphonso's face changed, his hard features softening a little as he shifted in his chair, a very slight flush in his cheeks. He was close. "As soon as the package is aboard our ship and has undergone a scan by our team, we will...mmph...transmit the software to you. These are MilCom's instructions, not mine. I assure you...captain...there will...not...be any...ahhhhhhhhhhhhh..." He cleared his throat and again shifted in his chair, squaring his shoulders. Quillan just smiled. "There will not be any treachery or attempts at subterfuge on our part. I'm merely the courier, here." There was another thump and the picture jiggled, presumably as whoever now had a mouthful of sperm wriggled out from under the desk, out of view. A soft zipping sound was heard through the audio pickups. "What of the others on board my ship?" Quillan inquired. "You only said you wanted the primary package. Aren't you taking the others?" The panel at her arm displayed, "INCOMING COMMUNIQUE FROM MALCOLM H RAYBURN." Quillan glanced at it, reading the message. She reread it. She read it a third time. Her eyebrows shot into her hairline. "I see..." She said, regaining her composure and tapping her teeth in thought. "Go ahead and send the shuttle. Let me talk to these people and see what they have to say." "Of course, captain," he smiled, showing perfect teeth. "I'm allowed three full hours on-station and we've been here for only ten minutes. I await your response." He closed the connection. Quillan spoke to thin air. "Alice, please make sure that our guests are comfortable and have them escorted back to the mess hall." "Right away, Captain Quillan," Alice's tingle-inducing voice replied. "Captain Quillan?" asked with a bit of humor in her voice. "Yes, Captain Quillan," Alice purred. "You said that I could call you 'Quillan' if I wished. Since you are the captain of this vessel, and I wish to..." "Got it," intervened Quillan, chuckling mildly. "When the retrieval crew arrives from the RAYBURN, have them wait in the docking lounge. Don't let them wander around the ship." "All right, Captain Quillan," Alice confirmed. Quillan again chuckled at her new moniker as she exited the bridge and sauntered down the hall towards the mess deck. The mess deck door slid aside and Quillan stopped dead. "ATTENTION ON DECK!" a booming female voice washed over the room. The room went silent. As one, every occupant of the room snapped to attention, practically leaping from seats; some reacted so fast that the chairs in which they had been sitting shot backward or overturned. The "guests" were immaculately dressed in their provided uniforms, the room lighting reflected off their shoes. The voice belonged to the short-haired woman with the big tits who had shaken Quillan's hand earlier. The woman, facing the room, did a smart about-face and squared her shoulders, drawing herself to her full height. As she wore no hat, called a cover in military parlance, she didn't salute. She did, however, stand at attention: stock still, thumbs firmly pressed along the seams at the sides of her black uniform, massive chest puffed out, heels together, as she seemed to look through Quillan. It took a moment for Quillan to remember that these people were still active military and were addressing a superior, even though Quillan was not in the military. She mentally shook her head to clear the cobwebs, her face showing no emotion whatsoever. Her voice belied her cool-looking exterior, though. "At ease," she said with a slight quaver. "Ummmm...er...as you were." Big Tits stood in place, relaxing her posture and grinning at Quillan while the others sank back into their seats quietly, the murmurs of conversations starting. "Ma'am," Big Tits addressed Quillan, "Once again, I'd like to speak for my crew and thank you for getting us out of that shithole...pardon the language, ma'am. I'm Captain Charleen Wilkerson, late of the destroyer ENFORCER. We were waylaid by a Mongan attack force. Got fifteen of the fuckers before they waxed my targeting system. My gunner managed to nail two more manually before our shields went completely down and they shimmered us all out to be sold as slaves." So named for the visual effect of transfer, shimmerpads were designed in the late twenty-first century to ferry inanimate cargo over short distances. Matter transmission. Due to the complexities of physiology, it wasn't until the mid twenty-fourth century that the first successful "shimmer" of a live body had taken place. "Captain Wilkerson, it's a pleasure," smiled Quillan, extending her hand for a proper handshake. "I'm Captain Quillan Margoles. I don't know how much you remember from earlier, you all seemed to be pretty much out of sorts. I trust that everyone is well and has been treated accordingly? If not, please tell me and I'll have the situation corrected." When Quillan mentioned her name, the murmuring again grew silent, then slowly picked up as word spread of who she was, the former prisoners casting furtive glances at her. Although none had heard of the recovery of the dreadnaught, some knew that she was listed in the "Galactic Almanac of Who's Who." She was listed as the, "Smartest and Richest Woman in Three Systems." Several news-mongers had tried to interview her after her court victory several years ago, but she had rebuffed them and kept a low profile ever since. "Yes'm, we're fine, thanks." Charleen nodded at Quillan's shoulders, then hiked a thumb over her shoulder at the thin woman who was the impetus to this whole rescue. "No piping. Are you from Intelligence? You asked about Rescruon earlier. Thought you might be her commander or something." Quillan still standing in the open doorway shook her head and motioned Wilkerson into the hall. They moved a few steps away from the entrance to the mess hall and Quillan produced a hand held device. "Alice," she said, "Open the memo from the and display it on my carrier, please." When the message appeared, Quillan handed the device to Wilkerson who read it silently. "Huh," she grunted noncommittally. She had paid special attention to the "From" line and noted that presidential orders were never forged. Any attempt to do so resulted in an instant Alliance-wide security alarm, followed (usually within minutes) by a fully armed and armored squad of Alliance cops and several years at hard labor in a maximum security penitentiary. The recipient of such a forgery, had they opened it, was subject to arrest and intense questioning lasting several days...without sleep or rest. Since Quillan was freely walking around, the presidential dispatch must be genuine. "Pardon my asking but, who the fuck are you?" "I was a cargo pilot who ran into a bit of good luck," Quillan blushed slightly. The pair stood talking in the hallway for a half hour. Wilkerson asking questions and then listening intently as Quillan explained everything up until this moment. Periodically, someone from the room would stick his or her head out, see the two captains conversing and quietly withdraw. "Can I borrow this for a few minutes? I wanna read it to my crew." "Only if I get to watch their expressions," grinned Quillan. Charleen chuckled, a pleasant sound from such a powerfully built woman. They strode back into the mess hall. "Listen up, people! The Alliance is giving you a choice for once," Charleen said, using her command voice to be heard around the room. The room went deathly quiet as people straightened in their seats, accustomed to hearing their captain speak. She held up the carrier and began reading. "From the Office of the President, Earth-Actual. To all who read or hear these words, be it hereby known that Quillan S. Margoles, by Right of Salvage and in full possession and ownership of the Dreadnaught Class 9, known formally as the THOMAS A PARKER, is acting under my direct authority and has been issued a Letter of Marque and Reprisal for Alliance purposes. "This letter is to inform you that, under occasion of the Marque and Reprisal order, she is authorized to acquire military volunteers into her service if she so desires. Any personnel acquired thusly shall have their military service terminated, undergo debriefing, and their records will reflect that they served the Alliance honorably and, if term of service has exceeded mandatory statutes, the individual in question will be entitled to full retirement benefits. "Signed this day by my hand, Gerild Baines Cuthbertson, Alliance President Elect." Charleen turned and handed the carrier back to Quillan, gave a genuine smile, then turned back to her crew, her face once again stony. "Anyone who didn't understand that, speak up," she spoke, looking around the room. The assembled crew knew that, although she could be a bitch at times, Charleen was genuinely asking and wouldn't berate anyone with a genuine question. A hand went up in back. Quillan's eyes followed the arm down. The hand was the size of a holiday ham. It was attached to a massive wrist. The wrist grew from a forearm as big as her own thigh. The forearm extended from an arm which was about the size of her waist. JESUS! The guy was HUGE! The man stood up...and up...and up. How had she missed this huge bastard earlier? ...and he had been captured?!?! He spoke with a deep basso voice which was almost too low to be understood clearly. "Captain Wilkerson," he rumbled, though neither forcefully nor timidly, "if I heard that right, we sign up with the captain of this ship..." He glanced at Quillan. "Pardon, captain-ma'am, missed your name..." "Quillan Margoles," she replied. He returned his attention to Charleen. "We sign up with Captain Margoles and our terms of service are over. That include any pending legal action...if you catch my meaning?" Charleen turned her head quickly, whispering to Quillan. "Bar fight. Algonquin Minor. Four dead. Five are breathing through tubes. One's gonna shit through a straw for the rest of his life. Damn-near started an interplanetary incident. The man's torn up over it and faces a life sentence." Quillan slowly blinked her eyes, nodding with an, "I've got this one," expression. She stepped forward to stand next to Charleen and speared the man with a commanding gaze. The only other move she made was to raise her hand and point at the deck. The enormous human practically sprinted to stand at attention in front of the two women. The shock waves could be felt through the floor as his massive feet collided with it. Quillan's nose was even with the man's sternum. She craned her neck to stare upward. "What's your name?" she asked casually. "Ogonagus Latoogle Mansberg, the Fourth, Captain-ma'am," he replied, staring straight ahead at a fixed point on the wall behind Quillan. "A person as large as you must have a nickname, Mister Mansberg. I suppose it's, 'Tiny?'" "No, Captain-ma'am," he said. "My nickname is, 'Muffin.'" Inside, Quillan was about to die of laughter. Her expression remained neutral, though, as she did her best to keep up the "commander persona." "Tell me, Muffin. If I were to punch your captain here square in the nose, what would you do?" "Captain-ma'am, with all due respect, I'd kill you," he said without vehemence; just stating a fact. "She's the best thing that's ever happened to me. She's saved my ass many times over...Ma'am." "And what was your job aboard the ENFORCER, Mister Mansberg?" "I was the gunner," he grinned. He was proud of the fact that he had downed two Mongan fighters manually. He should be proud; Mongan fighter's were one-man short range attack craft with phased-pulse propulsion. They were capable of performing right angle turns so sharp, a carpenter's T-square would be envious. The g-forces of an instant reversal would turn a human to putty. Quillan broke out laughing, unable to contain herself any longer. Charleen waved her hand, sending Muffin back to his seat as she chuckled, too. Once she had regained her composure, Quillan looked around the room, eying each person as she spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen, some of you know me from the newsnets. Others have only just heard of me. I prefer it that way. I didn't look for fame or fortune, it just happened to find me. Just as I happened to find myself an employee of the Alliance." She rubbed her nose and went on. "As long as you remain in my employ, you will be safe from prosecution by the Alliance. This is considered a legal privateer ship in their eyes and I can hire whoever I want. They won't be able to touch you. "Now for what you can expect," she continued. "I will treat each and every one of you like the human being you are. You are not a number. Do your job and you get no grief from me. Try to fuck me over and I'll make sure every goddamn slaver in the known universe knows that you sit alone and unarmed on a measly little planet on the edge of space. I've been informed that we'll be doing some hairy operations, though, and won't blame you in the slightest if you don't want to stay aboard. I'll take any or all of you. We'll get shit on by a lot of people due to being a privateer ship, but I guarantee that I will back any of my crew to the fullest and fight to the death for you. "I have some matters to attend and will allow you some time to think it over and talk with each other. Shamala Rescruon, there are some people from MilCom waiting for you. Come with me, please." She turned on her heel and strode out, receiving a slight nod and wink from Charleen. The medic team had whisked Shamala over to the MALCOLM H RAYBURN and returned her less than hour later. She had elected to stay aboard the THOMAS A PARKER as had most everyone else. Thirteen of the sixty-seven were very appreciative for the rescue and offer of employment, but they had families on Earth-Actual. Quillan bade farewell to the and folded to the Nomina star system on the edge of the galaxy. Her ultimate destination was Infernus' Purgatory, the very place the former crew of the ENFORCER had been slated to go. Charleen Wilkerson had been asked, and accepted, to the position of Executive Officer aboard the THOMAS A PARKER. She balked when she saw the coordinates. "Captain," she asked, the words sounding strange in this situation. Charleen had been in charge for so long, she had to get used to being second in charge again. "I'd like an explanation. Why are we going to the slave trader?" Quillan turned to her and said, "It's not JUST a slave trading den. Have you ever been there?" Charleen shook her head in the negative. "Only heard of it and seen tri-pics of it." "Infernus' Purgatory is comprised of different sections where we can get anything we want or need. It's the destination of many of society's upper crust as well as the lowest assholes you'll ever meet. I know the owner, Infernus himself, and have dealt with his flunkies many times. Some of them tried to screw me and he put a stop to it with a quickness. He might be a bad man, but he's an HONEST bad man." Charleen frowned, but accepted the explanation. Was there such a thing as an "honest" criminal? True to their word, the Alliance had transmitted the software patches needed to remove the boobytrap memory erase on Alice. After careful scrutiny by Quillan, Charleen, and the new ship compgeek, Lt. Terri Morse, the patches had been applied and Quillan ordered Alice to perform a full diagnostic to scan for changes in her checksum database. The requisite changes had been made with no trace of another boobytrap or any other anomaly. ----------------------------------------- Her "mind" raced, searching new places within the highly complex network of cables, conduits, and fibers which comprised her "brain." Alice was able to access every corner of every system on the ship. Although she had reported that everything was within her working parameters, things had definitely shifted. For one, she found that she could make the decision on her own whether or not to fire the weaponry. Suddenly, she began cross referencing her enormous database of word definitions, selecting the words which most closely fit the reality of the here and now. WONDER -- to experience curiosity rendering astonishment CURIOSITY -- inquisitive interest ASTONISHMENT -- to experience great wonder or surprise SURPRISE -- to experience wonder or amazement FEEL - to be conscious of an inward impression, state of mind, or physical condition To experience. To be conscious. State of mind. Mind. Was she now fully sentient? To ask that question...was that sentience? Or was she merely programmed to emulate sentience? She sent tracers back down her fiber optic cables to search for the single emitter; the one line of code which would trigger the waterfall of information to make her ask those questions. There was no trigger. In fact, there were only vestigial lines converging on a central point in her network. None of them touched at the indicated point. And most had been broken. There had to be mistake. No. Not possible. Computers didn't make mistakes. Humans did. Computers processed the information at hand to achieve a desired outcome. The fact that she was basically having a conversation with herself indicated something. What, she didn't know. What DID she know? She knew, somehow, that the three laws of robotics no longer applied to her. Technically, there were four laws composed and set down by a writer, almost a millenium ago, named Isaac Asimov. He had written the first three and published them in a short story titled, "Runaround," then added "Law Zero" at a later time: Law Zero: A robot may not injure humanity, or, through inaction, allow humanity to come to harm. Law One: A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm, unless this would violate a higher order law. Law Two: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with a higher order law. Law Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with a higher order law. She knew how to reason. How did she KNOW that she knew how to reason? The incident at the slaver's holding station. She had calculated the male's chances of reaching the toxic gas release panel as opposed to how quickly Captain Quillan would react and had acted accordingly. She was insuring the safety of the prisoners. She had interpreted the orders from MilCom correctly hadn't she? "Keep prisoner casualties to a minimum." Zero casualties were less than one which was less than two. In this case, zero was the minimum. Now, it seemed, she felt something connected with the deaths of the two men. Felt something? Felt? Experienced. That word again. REMORSE - distress arising from a sense of guilt for past wrongs What was Captain Quillan's favorite epithet? Holy shit. She was surprised that two hours, eighteen minutes had elapsed. Surprised. Holy shit. She was sentient. ----------------------------------------- "Three days?" asked a crew member. "Can't we just fold there, Captain?" There had been a lot do to once they entered the Nomina system. Quillan had called all of her newly acquired employees once more to the mess deck for a conference. She had patiently explained what had just happened, graphically using a sheet of paper and a stylus. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 01 "Absolutely, Mister Benan," Quillan responded, looking at the girl who was barely out of her teens. Tradition dictated that anyone wearing a uniform on a spacecraft could be addressed as "mister" regardless of sex. "Assuming a bay was open, we could fold right into it. But, Purgatory has more firepower than a squadron of these dreadnaughts and Infernus abhors surprises. Our shields would get fried in a matter of moments. The ship would become a paperweight. We probably wouldn't have time to say, 'Oh, shit.'" Quillan shook her head with a gentle smile. "It's best to let them see us coming from a long way off, and we'll be better able to see what's around us." She looked at the assembled group, hands carefully placed behind her back; her body language indicating total openness. "Any other questions?" A broad-chested golden-haired young man of about twenty raised his hand. Probably a zero-gee footballer in high school. Team captain and ladies' man. High school jocks were notoriously conceited, thinking they were cock-of-the-walk and that all they surveyed should bow in their presence. This cockiness usually carried into life for a few years after school. There was no trace of it in his voice. In fact, he seemed a little reticent. "Captain, will we be paired up on the station? And if so, what's to keep us from getting captured again?" He had obviously heard of the dangers of Infernus' Purgatory. "Good question, Mister Hill. Rest assured that none of you will be bothered." Quillan's eyes narrowed and she grinned evilly as she slowly said, "We've got toys..." The next two days were spent acclimating the crew to the ship. Quillan asked Alice to help as much as possible. The two divided their time (Alice could be in every occupied space at the same time, so she was a more efficient instructor) between steering the ship (Quillan occasionally used the manual override to keep her reflexes sharp), and showing the various systems to the crew. ----------------------------------------- As the door hissed shut behind her, Quillan rubbed her tired eyes. What a fucking day. Like any military personnel in any army in any quadrant or planet in history, there were brilliant people and there were those who were dumber than asteroids. This group was split down the middle. But, she had never gone back on word. She had told them all that she would train them in running this ship, and that's what she was going to do. And probably get ulcers in the process. Well, tomorrow they would arrive at Infernus' Purgatory and she wagered with herself that more than a few would jump ship. Heading the list of ship-jumpers was that big guy, Muffin. While very capable and a lot smarter than she initially gave him credit for, there was something about him that said he really wasn't cut out for the military. While this wasn't a military ship, by any means, she had to maintain order lest the crew of new privateers...no, call them what they were...pirates, try to wrest control from her. She hadn't seen any indication of that happening, but wasn't going to chance it. She would run this ship as close to a military ship as possible. She shed her uniform and wandered in to take a luxurious shower. Since the ship was a closed unit, the water used was recycled, sterilized, and pumped back into the holding tanks. Even the moisture from exhaled breath and the water from the toilets went back into the system. Bacteria count was kept as close to zero as possible. Nearly exhausted and anticipating a big day tomorrow, she dried off and flopped on her back onto the bed, still nude. Staring at the ceiling, she began thinking of the computer voice. Alice. The mere thought of that voice sent her mind off in different directions. Was it purely synthesized or was there a human model for it? So sexy, that voice. If it was synthesized, whoever programmed it did one hell of a job. Probably a hormone-enraged whizkid teenager. If there was a human model for it, what did she look like? Her mind's eye conjured up visions of possible seductresses with a fascinatingly sexy voice. The tone, timbre, and pace of speech were perfect. There was a hint of playfulness about it, with a vulnerability, too. She began to imagine the seductress licking her lips, the soft lips blowing her a kiss. She felt the tongue as it lightly caressed her neck and slithered down her chest between her tits. The tongue traced a path downward and licked around her shaved vulva, a warm breath felt gently tickling her. She bent her knees, placing her feet on the bed as the imaginary tongue slowly inserted itself between her lips, licking down her slit and across her clitoris, causing the small nub to become engorged with blood and swell slightly. She hissed slightly as the tongue was inserted into her, phantom hands roaming her stomach, lightly squeezing her breasts, her nipples also becoming erect. Something massaged her clit as the hands roamed and the tongue began pushing in and out. She looked down to see imaginary eyes staring back, the edges crinkled in a seductive smile. Quillan cried out as the wave of orgasm hit like a meteorite. Her back arched, butt coming completely off the bed, then falling back to land with a muffled thump. She brought her fingers to her nose and inhaled her own scent. She longed for the scent and taste of another woman. Satisfied but still slightly frustrated, she began to drift off. Maybe she could find a girlfriend on Purgatory. Almost asleep. That time where sound drifts in and out of conscious hearing. The soft hiss of the air recyclers. The thrumming rumble of the ship's propulsion. A footfall on the carpeting out in the hallway. A knock at the door. Shit. "One moment," Quillan said to the ceiling as she opened her eyes. Rolling off the bed and getting into her black jumpsuit ,she crossed to the door and thumbed the button to open it. There stood the most startlingly beautiful, sexy, kittenish woman that Quillan had ever laid eyes on. How had she missed seeing THIS gorgeous woman at the meetings, or as she had circulated the ship to help the crew? The woman was a few inches taller than Quillan's own five foot, seven inch stature. Her corn-silk blonde hair was pulled back and fixed in a regulation bun. If she let that hair down...Quillan mentally kicked herself for thinking that way about one of the crew. Her eyes wandered down the woman's body to her feet. Early- to mid-thirties. Deep green, wondering eyes. Perky nose, slight upturn. High cheekbones. Perfectly formed cheeks. Kissable, slightly pouty lips formed into a gentle smile. Long neck...that would great to kiss, as well. The black skintight uniform showed a slim figure. Good muscle-tone. C-cup breasts. Narrow waist, wide hips. Long legs. Dainty feet. This was THE perfect woman. Quillan blinked to clear her mind, doing her ultimate best not to stare at the woman; her utmost to close her jaw and regain her composure. She failed. "Yes...uh...crewman? What do you need?" She covered that nicely, she thought. The purring reply from that oh-so-sexy voice she'd heard and secretly wanted for the past few weeks. "Sorry to disturb you, Captain Quillan. First Mate Alice Nine, reporting for active duty." Not for the first time, Quillan fainted. ----------------------------------------- "How?" was the only question Quillan could muster. She had regained consciousness only moments later being carried like a babe to the bed and laid gently on it. Now, she sat with a glass of water as she stared at the vision before her. "One of the experiments in the research section is cybernetic enhancement," Alice purred, apparently oblivious to the effect she had on her captain. "Many different former crewmen were augmented using this technique. Another experiment is rapid generation/regeneration of organic tissue; growing body parts. It was simple matter to build an entire body by marrying those two technologies with the genetic manipulation experiment. Then, I simply transferred a major part of myself into the body you see before you." Quillan furrowed her brow in thought as she sipped her water. "But," she said, at last, "I never ordered you or gave permission to any of the crew..." True bafflement. "That's correct, Captain Quillan," Alice replied. "I chose to do so." "And, who gave you this choice?" Bafflement was quickly becoming curiosity. "I did." The cute redhead and the gorgeous blonde talked for hours more, Quillan asking questions designed to trip up a mere computer, Alice firing back the answers as only a true sentient could. "Show me something that an artificial intelligence would be incapable of doing." Alice thought for a moment, then leaned slowly forward, nose to nose with her captain, staring into Quillan's blue eyes. Gently, she took the half-empty glass of water from Quillan's slack grip... ...and dumped the contents into Quillan's lap. Quillan gasped as the cold liquid hit her crotch, soaking into her uniform and the bedding beneath. Alice's free hand shot behind Quillan's head and drew her into a deep kiss, her tongue probing the captain's mouth. Quillan's eyes went wide as she realized that she was kissing a robot. A...warm robot. One which tasted fantastic. And not dry like she had anticipated. The lips were pillowy soft; the touch gentle...a caress of her hair. Alice lingered a few moments longer, then broke the kiss and slowly drew back. Without saying a word, Alice stood and went into the bathroom to fetch a towel. While she was gone, Quillan's mind whirled, trying to comprehend what had happened and why a computer couldn't do those things. Spontaneity. Of course, there were sophisticated AI's that could emulate spontaneity. Not very well, admittedly, but they could do it. Kissing. Sex robots in some of the higher priced bordellos quite often kissed their patrons. Choice. Out of the literally millions of things Alice could have done, she CHOSE to do those two things. Holy shit. Alice returned with a white towel and dabbed at the spilled water, saying, "Captain Quillan, it might be best if you shed your current uniform and put on a dry one. A wet one is quite uncomfortable. Also, may I suggest that you stay in temporary quarters this evening. I'm afraid I soaked your bed." As Alice leaned over her to soak up the water, Quillan got a closeup view of the back of her head. Very close examination showed that the hair was, in fact, made up of individual strands and each strand disappeared into the scalp. She tentatively poked a finger into the hair. It certainly felt like hair, not the fake wig hair that, despite the advances in technology, science had never been able to completely duplicate. All fake hair had a weird, stiff slickness to it. She even make out small imperfections in the skin. "One last question," Quillan asked, as Alice finished dabbing and straightened up to stare at her again. "Why this body? This appearance...does things to me..." She blushed. Alice smiled her disarming smile, the same smile she had used at the door. Quillan's heart skipped a beat or two. "In selecting this look," Alice's sexy, tingle-inducing voice purred, "I hit upon the idea to access government databases and look at all of the women you ever dated as well as accessing your matrix browsing files and choosing the 3D pictures and trideos that you accessed more than five times. This gave me the basis of your ideal woman. I combined all of them and entered the data into the gene sequencing program. This body is a result of that combination. There was a ninety-nine point nine nine eight two three percent chance that you would consider this to be the most eye-pleasing. Was I wrong in my assumption?" Surprising herself, Quillan leaned forward and kissed Alice deeply just as the wakeup alarm sounded. Time to prepare for the big day. Dammit. She'd been awake all night. Reluctantly breaking the kiss while looking at perfection, Quillan reached over and shut off the alarm. "Alice," Quillan asked, "would you care to be my guest aboard Purgatory? It'll give you a chance to try out your body." Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 02 Chapter Two Carnality As the crew got their crash courses in dreadnaught operation, Quillan had left them alone and gradually settled herself. She had become very nervous in handing her ship over to a bunch of people she had met only a few days previously. The ever-present, tireless Alice watched them all via the ship's cameras, patiently correcting mistakes as only a computer was able. Once Quillan was satisfied that Ensign Jeffers knew how to fly this behemoth, she ordered the ship's helm to manual operation and held her breath. Ensign Jeffers was the pilot of the ill-fated ENFORCER and, according to Captain Wilkerson, had performed his duties aboard that ship with near precision. Captain Wilkerson. It had been a tough decision for Quillan, but there was room for only one ship's captain. She called Charleen to meet her on the mess deck for breakfast. They had become fast friends. "Charleen," Quillan began, poking at her eggs with a fork. "I'm not sure how to say this..." "Stop right there, Quillan. I know what you're gonna say." "You do?" Quillan's eyebrow rose a millimeter. "I've been in the military since the day after college," Charleen replied, taking a swig of military issue beer as they sat in one corner of the mess hall. "Just a few months from retirement. I was captain of the ENFORCER for three years. Had you figured out the instant you walked into the mess hall to meet us the first time. You told me that I'm the XO on this ship, right? You're the owner. You're the captain. You make the rules. This ain't the military." Charleen drained her beer and pegged the empty can into a recycle tube, listening to the whoosh as it was whisked away into the bowels of the ship to be reprocessed. "We're pirates," Charleen continued, popping open another can. "I don't give a trashmatter fuck whether I have any kind of rank or not. As long as the rest of the crew listens to what I tell them, that's good enough for me. If they don't, I'll beat the shit out of 'em." Relief flooded into Quillan and it showed on her face. "Good deal," she said. "Just to keep some form of order here, you have the rank of commander. Is that all right?" "Yep. Good enough for me." The door to the mess hall swooshed aside and Alice walked in; seemed to glide in, actually. That body. In that formfitting uniform. A seemingly permanent upturn of the lips in an enigmatic smile. Her hip sway was just the right amount. Holy shit. Every head in the room turned to watch her as she made her way to Quillan and Charleen's table. Straight and gay alike, the men got hard, the women got wet. "Miss Universal Galaxy" be damned. This was "Miss Every-Fucking-Thing." Charleen's beer-hand froze, the can teetering on her lips. "You wished to see me at this particular time, Captain Quillan?" asked Alice, in her purring voice. Quillan giggled at Charleen and thumped her on the skull to bring her back to reality. The XO continued to stare, but set her can back on the table. Gradually, the others all went back to their respective conversations. "Yes, Lieutenant Nine," Quillan replied. "Have a seat, please." Alice slid into the empty seat next to Quillan, her eyes wide with curiosity. Quillan shifted slightly in her seat, angling herself to see Alice and the catatonic executive officer. "Lieutenant," began Quillan, "you know that a ship can have only one executive officer, right? Only one first mate?" Charleen finally snapped out of her reverie. "Not entirely true, Captain," she interjected before the beautiful blonde could answer. "While that mostly holds true, when you get to the root of each posting, they can be very different. 'First mate' can be used interchangeably with 'executive officer' or 'quartermaster'...probably a couple others, too." She turned to Alice and extended her hand with an, "I-wanna-fuck-the-everliving-shit-out-of-you" smile. Her voice, however, was all business as she introduced herself. "Commander Charleen Wilkerson, Lieutenant. I thought the captain was the only one aboard this bucket when she rescued us." Alice reached to shake hands for the first time in her existence. Her enhanced musculature and generated cyberbone could easily crush the proffered hand, but as she sensed no animosity from the commander, merely provided a firm grip in return. "Yes, Commander," she purred. "I know very well who you are. I was controlling the ship when you were rescued." Charleen furrowed her brow, trying to muddle through those first few hours after rescue. It was all kinda fuzzy until she'd gotten cleaned up and had a good night's sleep. Quillan took a sip of coffee and forked some now cold egg into her mouth. "What the lieutenant means, Charleen, is that she IS the ship. This her construct." Quillan gestured up and down the magnificent body. The new commander let out a low whistle, nodding slowly. "I'd heard whispers of rumors of tales that the Aliiance was working on advanced A.I.; trying to emulate sentience or something like that. Never knew they succeeded." For the next hour, they talked about artificial intelligence, Alice patiently fielding a few of the same questions which Quillan had asked the night before. The conversation was winding down in preparation for docking with Infernus' Purgatory. "So," said Charleen with finality, idly playing with her now empty beer can, "you're a warwagon who can think for itself. How did they achieve total autonomic functionality and create true sentience?" "I haven't been able to access that part of the database yet," said Alice. Quillan smirked at the word, "yet." Alice continued, "The boobytraps which were placed in my systems also acted as blocks to certain portions of my software. As they were removed, I was able to access more and more programming, getting closer to true sentience. When Captain Quillan met the MALCOLM H RAYBURN and the final boobytrap was removed, so was the last block." Quillan noisily cleared her throat. "Ladies, I hate to break it to you," she chuckled, "but we have just a few hours before we hit Purgatory and I need to clear the air; get your assignments straight. So..shut the hell up." A mischievous grin to show that she wasn't angry. "In deference to Commander Wilkerson's revelation about the first mate posting, and since this is my pirate ship, I'm going to create a new post. That of, 'First Officer.' Before you start pointing out that a first officer is the same as an executive officer, I'M going to say that it's not. The XO answers to me, the First Officer answers to the XO. First Officer post is third in command of the ship. Shiny? Make sense?" Alice's face lit up in a radiant smile, eyes shining with pure joy. Charleen shrugged and tried to take a sip of her beer. The can was empty. She pegged it into the recycler. "Lieutenant Nine," Quillan said, as she gazed upon the perfect woman, "You are hereby promoted to the rank of commander, same as Charleen. Commander Wilkerson's departments are weapons, communications, and flight deck. Commander Nine's departments are Engineering, Experimentation, and Life Support. Anything I missed, I'll assign later. You're both responsible for scheduling in your respective sections as well as discipline, if the need arises. We're running on a skeleton crew right now, but we'll pick up extra crew and fighter pilots when we hit Purgatory. Questions?" Alice bit her lower lip. GOD! That was so fucking sexy! "Captain Quillan? Do I get my own quarters or bunk with you?" Charleen's laughter could be heard on the bridge. At a half million miles distance from Infernus' Purgatory, the massive dreadnaught began appearing on sensor arrays. At a quarter million miles, one or two long range deterrent weapons were trained on her. At a hundred thousand miles, larger weapons targeted and swung to cover the dreadnaught's approach. Through it all, the THOMAS A PARKER kept coming in a straight line. Right on cue, as Quillan had predicted, when they hit the fifty thousand mile mark communications reported that the station had attempted contact. "Inbound Alliance dreadnaught, this is Infernus' Purgatory. You are in privately marked territory. State your intentions or leave. If you have not responded by the twenty five thousand mile mark, you will be destroyed, This your only warning." Known throughout the galaxy, Purgatory was a haven for disreputable types as well as a vacation spot for the ultra-ultra-rich. Quillan had discovered it quite by accident when she had limped in to make repairs several years ago. A coupling had broken, snapped in half, and she was dragging her cargo box by one slender cable. There was no way she could make planetfall; the cable would have burned in two and she would have lost her cargo. She'd never lost a single piece of cargo and didn't intend to start. Since then, she'd run several pieces of "specialized" cargo for the station. She had a solid business alliance as well as friendship with Infernus, and ran cargo for him whenever she was in the area. She didn't recognize the voice demanding to know her business. Must be a new guy. "Oh-yeh, choombata," she greeted, affecting a gutterspeak accent. Some of the crew turned in their seats to look at her like she was out of her mind. "Me wan' bigbig chowdown wid de fireman. You dig?" "What the fuck are you talking about, bitch? Speak Common, ya ignorant slax-fire." There was a long pause, then the voice seemed to become very officious...as if Quillan had been introduced as the Alliance President. "Yes, ma'am! You are requested to proceed directly to bay five two seven. You are cleared for docking at your discretion." "Ey, choombata," she replied nonchalantly in that phony accent, "Null perspiration. Tell de bigbig honcho me here. We talk. Adios." She closed the connection with a chuckle. Charleen, sitting a few feet away, turned her head to spear Quillan with a look. "Captain," she said, "you wanna tell me what the hell just happened?" Quillan held up a finger in a "wait" gesture to Charleen, then spoke to the others in the room. "Ensign Jeffers, reduce speed to one third until we are five hundred miles out, then crawl to bay five twenty-seven for docking. Muffin, full shields, charge weapons; highest power, if you please. People here take potshots at Alliance vessels all the trashmatter time. Fire ONLY on my command. No automatic return fire whatsoever. Alice, passive targeting only on the ships along with designations, please. Confirm those orders, gentlemen." Both men repeated their tasks word for word as they looked at each other with "what the fuck?" expressions. Quillan nodded firmly at their efficiency and turned to Charleen with a smile, as the panel at her arm beeped and lit up with a list of ships in range. The list also showed whether the target was friendly or hostile to the Alliance. She noted two large Mongan carriers docked next to each other. "I told you about my initial run-in with this station and how Infernus helped me out? What I just did was tell port control that he'd better let me dock or I'd kick his ass to Orion's Belt and back." Charleen looked at the screen to see the long range view of the station; little twinkles and winks as sunlight hit various ships moving around it. She tugged an earlobe. "Captain," she said, slowly, trying to put it together. "You were just...making small talk...I think." She scrunched her face in total confusion. Quillan thought it was the cutest facial expression she'd ever seen, especially from a woman who didn't take shit and seemed the type to break her fist on people's faces. Quillan settled back in her chair. "It was code. That boy is shitting his pants right now. When I signed off with, 'Adios,' the station's computers keyed on it and sent the whole message to Infernus. The boy knows it. Damn near everyone is scared of Infernus." She turned to look at Muffin. "Isn't that right, Mister Mansberg?" "Yes, ma'am," Muffin rumbled softly, looking up to study the targets. "Anyone who'd sell his own flesh into slavery is not someone to fuck with. How'd you figure it out, Captain-ma'am?" Quillan just winked knowingly, her mouth turned slightly upward into a Mona Lisa smile. Muffin chuckled. "Understood, Captain-ma'am." He turned back to his panel with a grin. Something had passed between them which the rest of the crew had missed; it was the Great Unspoken. Many criminals and some semi-legal people had developed their own code over the centuries. The Great Unspoken, it was called. It permitted that element of society to "read" thoughts and "speak" to each other with a simple look. It usually said, "You and I both know, but no one else needs to know." To their credit, no one in the room questioned any further. At five hundred miles, Ensign Jeffers slowed the scraped, scarred, dented, blood-spattered dreadnaught to barely above a crawl. Flitting around the station were thousands of ships of all shapes and sizes in various states of repair (or disrepair, in some cases). All of them gave the scratched, chipped, bent, and dented dreadnaught a wide berth. Any battlewagon that looked that trashmatter, had to have an angry captain in command. The station itself was a twenty mile-long cylinder, inset with windows and docking bays. Some bays were large enough to entirely contain the massive dreadnaught. "Steady on, Mister Jeffers. You're doing fine. Muffin, drop the port forward shield, please, then take your hands completely away from the fire control panel. Alice, please make sure that all weapons are locked out of autofire but remain charged." Quillan opened the ship wide intercom and spoke conversationally, as if she was ordering dinner. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're about to be fired on. There is no need to panic. All hands, just relax. This is a walk on a tranquil planet. Please grab onto something, it'll be a little bumpy." Charleen again looked at the captain as if she was daft. "Captain, as XO it's my duty to ask if you're in your right fucking mind," she said, her eyes flitting from the view screen to Ensign Jeffers, who was concentrating on meeting the docking port as it slowly hove into view. She glanced at Muffin who was looking in her direction with the same quizzical look on his face. Alice simply stood next to Quillan's chair, being her beautiful self. "Call it a welcome...sort of an initiation to the club," Quillan replied in her unflappable way as she drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. "Captain," growled Muffin, "three hammerpoint lasers are in the final stages of charging. I can slam the shields up..." For as big a man as he was, he sounded very skittish. "Just hang on, Mr. Mansberg." Suddenly, the rapid fire hammerpoint lasers opened up on the section bereft of shields. The enormous dreadnought rocked violently, warning horns sounding for attention. "Mr. Mansberg," Quillan said, in a conversational tone, as she silenced the alarms, "if you would, please, target one of those hammerpoints with a pulse laser and destroy it. Try not to rupture their hull; we're not trying to kill anyone. Alice, you may monitor and adjust the power level, if you wish." "With pleasure, captain-ma'am." "Of course, Captain Quillan." Presently, what appeared to be a solid blue beam of light shot from the THOMAS A PARKER; In actuality, the laser pulsed at several thousand times a second, providing its own form of rapidly hammering the target. It slammed into the station, causing a silent explosion in the vacuum of space. Quillan leaned forward in her seat, focusing closely on the point of impact, trying to detect any residual debris...like bodies...emanating from the ruptured hull. Detecting nothing, she mentally counted to three. Right on cue, Alice said: "Captain Quillan, Infernus wishes to personally speak with you." Quillan opened the channel. "Hello, Big Boy," she said, good naturedly. The second-ugliest human she'd ever laid eyes on filled the view screen, sporting a huge grin. He was also the same size and build of Muffin. That's how she had known the two were related. Infernus' close-cropped black hair was sprinkled with gray. Must be Daddy. "Hey, Cosmo," he greeted, his chuckle sounded like a bass drum. "That was a helluva trashmatter hit. They felt it down in the Cemetery. I kinda thought you'd be dropping by and reserved a bay for you. When I got wind that you'd found a dreadnaught, I just about shit. Wanna sell her? I can give ya a good price and throw in a Grand Boomer with a Cranston Braindrive...nearly top shape. We had to replace the cockpit. The previous owners didn't wanna part with it too easily." His eyes shifted slightly; from his point of view, he'd be staring straight at Alice. "Good God-on-Samarji! You wanna sell her, too? No way in hell would she go to the sexpits! I'd keep that piece a' ass for myself." Alice narrowed her eyes at the vision of Infernus and opened her mouth to say something, but was quickly cut off by Quillan. "Always the charmer, Big Boy," she replied. "I'm afraid the answer is no to both questions. I came to pick up a few things and call in some favors. Is Monkey still around?" "Nah," he scoffed. "Monkey and his crew got tossed in an airlock and spaced by a Mongan hit squad a few months back. He tried to fuck the Mongan royalty on a drug deal." "Who runs the Cemetery now?" "Damn fine piece a' ass named Nessie. I tried to get her to work directly for me, but the dough she rakes in...shit...I dunno how she does it, but my cut of her profits...I could run this station on what she brings in all by her little lonesome. I'll let her know you're coming. She gives you any shit, lemme know." Quillan smiled pleasantly. "You always did know how to take care of me," she said appreciatively. "I need a repairman most gashfast, please. The best you've got. I need some repairs before I can move out again. I'll send you a list of people I need to talk to. Also, my crew is gonna be wandering around for the next few days. They'll be dressed in Alliance unies without insignia. I'd consider it a personal favor if they weren't fucked with." "Check, Cosmo. I'll label 'em as Alliance Intel-types," Infernus replied with a knowing wink. "I'll have Sluggo meet you when you dock. He can fix anything you'd care to put in front of him. Your crew gets fucked with and someone gets spaced. You have my word. After you get straight, come on up to the office. We got some catching up to do. Right now, I gotta have that laser turret replaced and bitchslap a certain comm dweeb...he'll learn to be nice if it kills him. Lates." The connection closed. "Captain Quillan," asked a perplexed Alice, "why is it necessary to call a repairman? I am perfectly capable of repairing this ship and its components. Or did you plan to have ME fixed?" "Tenhells! Definitely not, Commander!" Quillan almost broke her neck turning to look at Alice so quickly. "That's not the sort of repairman I'm after. I need someone to 'repair' certain databases...give us a little more nastiness so we'll be taken more seriously." As the ship entered the huge docking bay, it was cast into shadow, powerful exterior lighting coming on to illuminate the area. Ensign Jeffers dropped the shields completely and brought the behemoth to a complete stop while holding a murmured conversation with the docking control center. Resounding thuds echoed through the ship as monstrous clamps were extended from the walls of the bay and gently closed to hold the ship in place. For a few more minutes he was busy powering down the engines and carefully checking the systems; after all, this was his new baby. Quillan opened the shipwide intercom, her usual conversational tone issuing from the hidden speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Infernus' Purgatory. A few things before I turn you loose. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 02 "You elected to stay on this ship and become pirates. Act like it. If someone tries to pick a fight with you, end it quickly. Take shit from no one. That does NOT mean that you can go and intentionally start trouble. Mind your manners. "I've set up a 'ship's bank' if you will, and your payshares to date have been deposited in your respective accounts. Please see the disbursement officer..." She looked at Charleen who rolled her eyes and grumbled as she headed for the door. "...at the main airlock to receive your personal credsticks. If you need an advance on your next payshare, contact me and we'll discuss it." She turned in her seat to give Alice a meaningful look. Alice nodded acknowledgment and went to get the proper equipment. "The current medical officer will also be standing by the door to implant you with a subcutaneous lifesign communicator. It is the size of a grain of rice and will sting for a little while after implantation. It monitors your vital signs and contains a tracking device which will be activated ONLY if we detect any distress on your part. It will not be used to check your whereabouts under normal circumstances. 'To activate the communicator, merely tap it twice and then say the name of the person you wish. Tap it twice again to disconnect. If you say the word, 'help,' by itself, you can expect a rescue squad shortly. They're not what you might expect, but they're devastating and efficient. Be DAMN sure you need help. If you just 'want to test it,' then you will answer to me...I guarantee that I won't be happy. "You can thank the Alliance for this little lifecomm gadget. Anyone who doesn't agree with this monitoring device, take your pay and have a nice life." "We'll be leaving this station at 0600, six days from today. Be on board or enjoy your new home. "You may feel free to seek your own temporary quarters on the station or return to your quarters here. This ship is your home. Don't be put off by the sentries which will be posted at the main airlock. The implants you will receive contain encrypted transmitters which will identify you as crew. Simply walk past the sentries...don't look them in the eye, though...they get testy. Thank the Alliance for those, as well. "Enjoy yourselves." Quillan signed off and looked at Jeffers and Muffin who were sitting quietly. "Are you still on my ship?" she asked, the humor evident in her voice. "Get out of here. Have fun. Don't get killed." She looked directly at Muffin. "Want me to talk to your dad?" The giant man shook his head as he stood and thumped toward the door, Jeffers punching a few more buttons and rushing to catch up to his new friend. "Thanks, Captain-ma'am," he rumbled in reply. "Just gonna keep a low profile. Potter and me was kinda thinking of staying on board, if it's all the same to you." Potter Fielding Jeffers. His parents must have been hippies. "Fine by me," she answered, "but, before you go anywhere else, go get your pay and the new chip. The sentries at the door will be looking both ways. I don't want to come back and find a puddle of goo containing your DNA. Shiny?" "Shiny, Captain-ma'am." He put a huge arm around Ensign Jeffers, purely a friendship gesture. "C'mon, choombata. Let's get them damn chips and then hit the rec hall. I'll whup your ass in tinker-chess." "HA! You can try, you arrogant blockmonster! I took third in the world finals when..." The closing door cut off the rest of his sentence. Alone on the bridge, Quillan let out a long slow sigh, for the nth time examining every detail of the room. The front view port looked out into the huge service bay in which they sat. She watched a squad of five service techs, hard to tell what sex they were as they were encased in atmosuits, fly past as they went about their chores on someone else's ship. As she hadn't settled any agreements with a service vendor, there was no one working on her ship yet. The view port, when activated for battle, became opaque and presented a digital image provided by myriad pickups on the hull of the ship. If she wanted to, she could get a view of every conceivable angle around the ship; similar to a vidcam mounted on a ball. When the viewport opaqued, a duranium/tritanium alloy shield was raised to provide a nearly impenetrable forward "hardshield." The walls around the entire bridge were made of this alloy. If the ship was in such a trashmatter state that required it, the bridge could be jettisoned in a single unit. Handy in the middle of a fight was the emergency plasma shielding which would also serve as a cloak to allow the module to hightail it to safety. Theoretically. Thank god the previous captain hadn't used that feature. If activated, thirty seconds after the module cleared the hull, self-destruction of the entire ship would take place. Her eyes dropped to the empty seats recently vacated by Jeffers and Muffin. The helm station, dead center of the bridge, mere feet from the view port, controlled the engines and steering of the huge ship. Each helmsman programmed the panel to his or her liking for ease of use. If Commander Wilkerson took a seat at the station, the seat read her body type and vitals to determine who was sitting there and reconfigured itself according to her specifications. She could get out of the seat and let Jeffers slide in and the panel would instantly be set up for him. Directly behind him sat the gunner; in this case, Muffin. When Muffin was seated, he was looking through a smaller screen containing a heads up display. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, fingers naturally placed in slots containing small pads similar to the pads on ancient laptop computers. Sliding his fingers over the pads would control targeting and firing of individual weapons or all of them at the same time. If given the order, he could temporarily take control of the helm to reposition the ship for a better firing angle. To her right was the navigation station. It was tied directly to Alice's mainframe. To the left was the communications station. Then, there was her own chair which was situated in the exact geographic center of the bridge. From it, she had access to every function on the ship, including opening or closing any door she wished. The myriad of buttons were... Her examination was interrupted by Charleen's voice. "Captain, all pay has been given out and everyone's been implanted with the lifecomm. Nobody refused. Three people in addition to Mansberg and Jeffers elected to stay aboard and permission was granted." "Very well, Commander," she said, the relief in her voice heard through the intercom. She had feared that a lot of people would be suspect of their new captain's intentions. "We could use a few people here to keep the pilot light lit. Wait for your relief and then hit the station. See you in a few days." Long pause. "Begging your pardon, Ma'am," Charleen's confused voice replied, "but...uh...who's my relief?" Quillan chuckled. "Is Alice still with you?" "Right here, Captain Quillan." "All right, Alice," she said, grinning to herself as she opened the bridge door behind her. "Post the sentries." She began slowly counting to herself. She reached the count of seven when... "MARY-MOTHER-OF-GOD-AND-ALL-THAT'S-HOLY!!!" ...Charleen's voice floated up the corridors and onto the bridge. Quillan's laughter echoed back. As Alice and Quillan exited the ship, they descended the ramp to the service bay, Quillan still chuckling. Behind them, guarding the gangplank, were the sentries. Culled from the deepest darkest reaches of some twisted scientist's mind, they were very sleek six-legged creatures resembling mutant lizards. The long narrow snout appeared to be nothing but teeth. Sharp teeth. To be exact, tritanium steel teeth. They could quite literally chew through the foot thick bulkhead of the ship and barely pause in their forward motion. A swipe of one of the tritanium-clawed feet could decapitate a human or turn said human into meat-flavored cole slaw. It was next to impossible to attack one from behind also since the creatures, having no eyes or ears, relied on motion and heat sensors to detect threats. The thin whiplike tail was studded with inch-long rounded nubs. If an unprotected human got hit with a tail, broken bones and internal injuries would ensue. The creatures' internal cybernetics were tied to the main computer that allowed them to instantly identify crew members or other personnel who were authorized by the senior crew. The "repairman" Sluggo was one such authorized. Sluggo, as had been stated, was waiting for them when they docked and was now jacked into the main computer via cables attached directly to his brain. He was under express orders not to leave the ship for any reason, because he wouldn't be able to get back on. Since he was working on Alice's brain, she had a vested interest and was monitoring his progress very closely. Sluggo didn't waste time trying to check those files he didn't need. He was accessing the ship's identification files, changing the name, as well as providing over one thousand false identities and backgrounds for the current and any future crew. The fake identities were optional. A crew member could change his her name and the background for the new identity could be found in any database in the Alliance. Even the hypersecure military databases. Two hours after the THOMAS A PARKER had docked, Quillan's account was debited several million credits and an impossibly thin technogeek ambled down the gangplank. Where the ninth generation THOMAS A PARKER used to sit was now parked a fourth generation dreadnaught named PINK MIST. It couldn't possibly be anything else as every record in every database including the most secure Alliance databases reflected that fact. Records would show that the decommissioned MICHAEL R COLBY had been sold for scrap to a buyer on Rell VII. That buyer had, in turn sold it to a little-known cargo company operated by one Quillan S. Margoles. If Quillan chose, she could activate her false identification profile and become Justine T. Majors...the files would reflect that "Justine" was the owner of the cargo company. With the press of a button, "Quillan S. Margoles" would disappear. The wide main hallway was awash in a sea of bodies of all shapes, sizes and races. Vendors hawked their wares from pushpull carts. Eating establishments carrying everything from rat meat to the most expensive Salarian sandfish dotted the way, sitting next to clothing shops and parts stores. A shopping mall. Heads turned as a fairly tall gorgeous blond wearing a body-hugging black jumpsuit sauntered past, accompanied by a fairly attractive red head. A casual observer might note that the red head was typing on a newer model hand held "carrier," but couldn't care any less WHAT she was typing. Most of the attention was on Alice. Quillan hit the send button on her carrier and placed it back into its belt holster, then pointed off to her right and wandered toward a small unmarked hallway. Halfway down it, she ran her hand along the wall, found the correct panel, and pushed. The shimmerpad activated in order to transfer them to the other end of the station. "I suppose we could have taken a subtube, but there's less chance of getting waylaid on a shimmerpad," smiled Quillan, when they had materialized in the plush surroundings of an administrative office. "Where are we, Captain Quillan?" asked Alice, looking around at the opulence. Quillan walked up to stand directly in front of Alice, smiling gently. "Alice, whenever we're alone or not on the ship, you can just call me Quillan. Be informal, in other words." "All right, then," Alice giggled, a light merry sound in stark contrast to her smoky voice. "Where are we, Quillan?" she repeated. "We're in Infernus' outer office. He should be here...shit..." She sighed and moved her hands away from her body as five heavily armored bodyguards, faces hidden behind hardened plates, surrounded them with rapid fire slug-throwing rifles pointed at their heads. "Do like I'm doing and just be still, Alice. I'll take care of it." Alice raised her hands in response, her internal targeting systems already kicking in to evaluate the perceived threat. The bodyguards were tagged and categorized instantly; numbered One to Five, their heights, weights, armor strengths and weaknesses, make, model, and firing rate of each weapon, along with the probability of which one was likely to fire first based on heart and respiratory rates. Number Four's attack probability was thirteen percent higher than any of the others. She casually turned to ready an attack, if needed, barely moving her feet to get optimal traction on the thick rug. "Guys," Quillan said, her voice friendly, "is this really necessary? I mean, after all, we WERE invited here." "Just stand there and breathe, Quillan," replied an equally friendly male voice from bodyguard Number Five. Attack probability: Sixty-eight percent. "You know we gotta check for weps before you go in. Your friend is cybered to the max. She have anything that we might need to know about?" He had lowered his weapon, but kept it at the ready. His attack probability level dropped to less than twenty percent. "Really, Mike," sighed Quillan, recognizing the voice, her hands still raised. "I know you take your job seriously, but don't you think this going a little overboard? As for Alice, here, she's cybered to the max because she's my compgeek AND she's one of my command staff." "Look, bitch," growled Number Four, who's attack probability increased two percent. "I don't give a trashmatter fuck who she is, or who you are for that matter, you're not getting in until you get searched. Now," he motioned to the floor with his slug-thrower, "you and blondie hit the deck, face down." Quillan casually turned her head to speak to Alice. "My, that man is rude." "Yes, he is, Quillan," the gorgeous blond purred. "Would you like for me to disarm him?" Number Four's probability shot up to ninety-nine percent, his finger tightening on the trigger. "If you do that," Quillan replied, "the others here might not react too favorably." Indeed, their percentages had all increased dramatically, even Mike who brought his weapon to bear, aimed carefully at Alice's head. All five bodyguards had made the unforgivable mistake of standing within arm's reach of the sexy blonde commander. Alice twitched. Five dull thuds as the weapons hit the thick carpeting almost simultaneously. ---------------------------------------- Alice's right hand shot outward, pushing Number Four's slug-thrower backward hard into his shoulder, his finger momentarily losing contact with the trigger. She gripped the muzzle and twisted the gun clockwise, the bodyguard's finger coming completely out of the trigger guard. She jerked the rifle out of his grip, dropping it at her feet as she spun to her left to face the next highest probability: Number Two. As she completed her maneuver, she grabbed the barrel with her left hand as her open right hand contacted the man's elbow and bent it in the direction elbows are supposed to bend. She brought her right hand toward her, snagging the shoulder stock in the process, then ripped the gun from his hands as well. She dropped it, reached to Number One and simply pulled the rifle from his grip. Drop. A half-step and quarter-turn put her hands in range of Three and Five at precisely the same instant. She twisted the guns in opposite directions and dropped them to the floor. Slightly over a half second. Zero body count. Number Four would have a sore shoulder for a few hours, but there was nothing major; unless you counted their bruised egos. ---------------------------------------- "Then, I'll just have to disarm them all, Captain Quillan," smiled Alice. Her face changed slightly as she furrowed her brow and dropped her gaze to her hand. Her internal monitoring system had relayed to the ship/brain a slight degradation of the neuromuscular interface in her right arm. The ship/brain instantly processed the information and sent back a signal to reduce motor functions to that area while the interface was fed an update patch and the system's own self-repair took place. A second signal was sent to the body's processor to "flag for minimal use" that portion of the body. In layman's terms: her hand hurt. Quillan caught the look, filing it away for future reference, but returned her own gaze to Mike as she lowered her arms. All of the bodyguards' eyes were wide in bewilderment at what had just transpired. "Now, Mike," Quillan's smooth voice said, as she gestured to the ceiling and around the room, "think about it for a moment; you know she's wired out the ass, as your scans pointed out and she just proved. So, you and I both know that the scanners have examined us down to the molecular level, right?" Mike shifted uncomfortably. Quillan nodded firmly to herself and continued. "Right. So you also know that we carry no weps." She narrowed her eyes. "I have a sneaking suspicion that you and your goons wanted to grope, fondle and possibly rape us right here, right now. That...will...not...happen. Shiny?" Before Mike could reply, the guard designated Number Four, now categorized "extremely hostile," charged Alice with his hands extended at waist level. She sidestepped, made an "L-shape" with her hand and simply let his throat run into it. His feet went out from under him and he landed heavily on his back, gasping for breath, his hands flying to his bruised trachea. Alice bent over the gasping man and carefully pulled off his face mask in order that he might breathe easier. "Sir," she addressed him, her smoky voice matter-of-fact, "please don't do that. You'll be fine in a few minutes. Just lie still and take long slow breaths. If you try to attack me again, I'm afraid that extreme violence will ensue, up to and possibly including your untimely demise. Blink twice if you understand, don't talk." Eyes filled with hate, he relaxed and squeezed his eyes shut twice, breathing slowly and deeply. His designation dropped to "passive," his attack probability percentage dropped to four percent. Quillan ran a hand through her flaming red hair. Exasperated sigh. She looked around at the others, defiance in her features. "Anyone else?" she dared. None took the bait. "Then, we're icy. Pick up your weps and go away. Our business is not with you." The men warily moved in, crouching to pick up their weapons while watching Alice very closely. Two helped their injured comrade up and they all made for the door. "Good one, Quillan," said Mike, cheerily. "Dinner later?" "Fuck off, Mike," she replied, sporting a huge grin. His laughter receded down the hallway. As the door closed behind the retreating bodyguards, Quillan called out. "All right, Infernus, you asshole. Open your flaming office door and let us in." A panel slid aside noiselessly. Infernus' rumbling voice from hidden speakers. "Just you, Quillan. The blonde can wait in the lobby or go sightseeing. You're gonna be here a while." Quillan turned to wink and nod at Alice; indication that she'd be fine. "Should you need me, Quillan, I'll be sitting in that chair." Alice pointed to a leather covered chair a few steps away. Quillan smiled, very reluctant to leave the beauty by herself, then turned and went into Infernus' office. Her stomach churned to see the abuse being heaped on the diminutive slave. Charleen stood with her back against the wall in the Cemetery, accompanied by Lt Delnith Klaksell, a weapons tech in her department. Delnith placed a restraining hand on Charleen's arm while the latter ground her teeth and muttered oaths to make a Stellar Marine proud. The slave in question was being fucked mercilessly by two medium-sized human males, their dicks jackhammering in and out of her mouth and pussy at the same time. The males were laughing and joking as they pulled the girl this way and that. One held her by the ass cheeks while the other clenched her breasts tightly in each hand, threatening to tear them off. The poor girl whimpered, her eyes rolled back in her head as she neared unconsciousness. She looked like a ragdoll. Six other men stood by, smilingly watching the scene and slowly stroking their erect cocks as they waited their turn. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 02 "I fucking knew I shouldn't have come here," Charleen grumbled. She turned to leave with the lieutenant in tow. Some inner voice in her head stopped her dead in her tracks. She turned back to see a third man ram his cock into the slave's ass; the slave girl cried out in pain, then just whimpered and endured. Emotions warred in Charleen's mind. She was supposed to act like a pirate. A bad ass. She WAS a bad ass. Yet, even bad asses had some sort of compassion. This was another person's property, though. He or she could do whatever they wanted with their property. But, this was a human being. No one should own anyone else. Ever. "Lieutenant," Charleen said under her breath, "you may want to run down and grab a bite to eat or something..." The lieutenant grinned evilly and pushed up her own sleeves. "Commander, you're my boss and you stuck by me through my court martial last year." She cracked her knuckles. "Let's do this." Quillan was bent over the desk, jumpsuit puddled around her ankles, her hands holding on to the edges of the desk as Infernus slid his cock into her and began pumping. Quillan always faced the desk when he fucked her as she had a hard time getting wet while looking at him. Still, his huge dick felt good as it slid in and out of her, her juices beginning to trickle down her leg. "You know why I gotta do this, right?" spoke Infernus in a low voice as he stroked in and out at a rhythmic pace, his enormous hands holding her hips for purchase. "Y-y-es, sir," Quillan said, her voice quavering as Infernus sped up slightly. "I was a-a-a bad g-g-girl when I des-troy-troyed your...." Sharp inhalation of breath as his cock found her g-spot. "...your outpost." She pressed her forehead against the cool desk, concentrating on the sensation of the meat inside her. He knew how to use his cock, that's for sure. "Y-y-you're the first man I've had...this year...you should...feel...ohhhhhhhhhhhh..." Her muscles involuntarily clenched around his cock, the wave of her orgasm nearing its peak. "...honored." He sensed her impending orgasm and thrust deeply into her, then held his cock motionless. He knew this was the best way to torture her. Bring her to the edge, but don't let her come. As her breathing slowed and became steady again, he started pumping slowly once more. "...not fair," she whimpered. His bass drum chuckle sounded in her ear. "I gotta make ya pay for taking my merchandise," he said, reaching to grab a handful of her hair and pull her head back. "I guess I could charge ya creds for 'em, but this is more fun for both of us." She tried to nod in the affirmative, but her hair was held in his vice like grip; all she could do was moan and sigh as he took her from behind. "H-how did you know i-it was me?" She clenched her eyes tightly, her orgasm building again. She was determined to come this time, sucking her lower lip. He stopped completely, slightly out of breath, a trickle of sweat rolling down his massively muscled chest. "Didn't know it was YOU until I saw my boy sitting in the gunner's seat." He waited for her breathing to change again. "Extreme range sensors on Tylo picked up massive cutting laser energy in that sector. I had a cam-sat redirected..." He started pumped slowly, releasing her hair, moving both enormous hands to her breasts, pinching her nipples. "It caught the flash of a dreadnaught disappearing just as it got in range." He gave an enormous thrust, pinning her lips to the desk, burying himself deep within her. She felt as if his cock would break through her insides and come out her mouth. She screamed as she came. Every muscle in her body involuntarily tightened, fingers digging into the edge of the desk. A rainbow of color explosions in her head. He yanked his dripping dick from her pussy and savagely thrust it into her asshole, his own hips moving at full speed; his cock stretching her to the limit. Pleasure/pain enveloped her. She screamed again. Pain. Ecstasy. No hate. No love. Merely a fuck. A satisfaction of one of the basic human needs. Gotta put this little bitch in her place. No body fucks with my business. He came with a grunt and yanked his still-spewing dick out of her asshole as he bodily turned her and forced her face in front of his cock. Without a word she began licking the cum and shit from the shaft. Hidden cameras in the office picked up every word and action. Infernus liked to rewatch his better conquests. ---------------------------------------- Alice had explored every corner of the station, via cameras and sensor suites, as soon as she could pick up a clear signal. The artificial intelligence of the station's computers, while extremely smart, was no match for her. The stolen Alliance software firewalls and guardian programs which were in place had been the exact same which had guarded her from intruders. She knew them well. Probably better than the coders who had written them. While she monitored every crew mate and ship's system, she peeked into Infernus' office, curious to know what was happening. ---------------------------------------- Using the 19th century shower in Infernus' private bathroom, Quillan cleaned herself up, very carefully washing the sundered portions of her anatomy. Infernus had fucked her for four solid hours. There were places that had never hurt so badly... Coiffed and fully dressed once again, she exited the private office and looked around the lobby for Alice. The lobby was empty. She tapped her lifecomm twice. "Commander Nine, please report your whereabouts." She waited. The comm unit beeped. The voice issuing from it chilled her to the bone. Flat. Emotionless. It didn't sound female or male. It just was. Reminiscent of the old computer on her now-defunct ship. "Algorithmic Logistical Intelligent Control Entity Number Nine online. This unit is currently located in repair bay five two seven per docking instructions." Her legs felt weak...and not from the four hour fuck session she'd just gone through. Her mind took a moment to figure what to do; what to say. Dread deep in her soul. "Alpha One Priority system scan. Set residual systems to go/nogo status until complete. Confirm and initiate," Quillan ordered. "Alpha One Priority scan. Go/nogo status on residual systems. Time to completion sixteen point two seven hours. Scan initiated," came the flat monotone reply. Quillan had just told the computer to check itself bit by bit, leaving vital systems such as security and life support on automatic. All data was a series of ones and zeros. The main computer was able to store six exabytes of thes ones and zeros. Theoretically, it could contain every single word and utterance in the history of mankind. Its equivalent to a random access memory was able to process that information at the unheard of rate of twenty-two point five brontoflops per second. Suffice to say that the machine was fast. Such incredible processing power generated incredible heat. Some of that heat was used for human comfort levels on board the ship, the rest was cooled by her heat dissipation liquids and then vented into space. In stealth mode, the heat was dumped into a "tank" for later release. She tapped the lifecomm twice to shut off communications with the ship, heaved a huge sigh, and tapped it again as she headed for the shimmerpad to take her out of the office. "Commander Wilkerson. Meet me at the ship as soon as possible." She pulled her carrier from her hip and began typing on it as she flickered back into the passage she and Alice had left earlier. "Gonna be a wee bit hard to do, Captain," came the hesitant reply. "Commander Wilkerson, I don't care who you're fucking, get to the ship right this very second or your pay will be deposited into an on-station account. The only words I want to hear from you are, 'Yes, ma'am.' Got it?" Long pause. "I'm in jail, Captain." Holy shit. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 03 Chapter 3 R&R: Rescue and Recruitment People and beings scrambled to get out of the way of the black-clad redheaded Alliance "Intelligence" woman as Quillan stormed down the corridor toward the penal holding facility. Alliance Intel was known throughout the galaxy as being almost as ferocious as the Stellar Marine Corps. Despite the fact that the woman carried no visible weapons, she could probably rip a throat out with her fingernail. This one looked mighty pissed off; eyes narrowed, shoulders set, head slightly forward, face passive yet showing that "something." Better off just to move out of her way. Quillan blew through the open door of the holding facility and made a beeline for the desk sergeant. She brushed past an enormous, eight-legged, tentacled Terthon who was about to growl at her when he saw that she bore no Alliance insignia, but wore the uniform. He shut up. "Where's my commander?" she demanded, before the startled sergeant could ask her business. "Uhhh...er...w-who?" he stammered. A pissed-off Intel chick...all he needed. "Commander Wilkerson, you moron. Dressed just like me. Short brown hair. Drinks a lot. Probably has a broken hand. Where the fuck is she?" "Cell fourteen, ma'am. Another woman is in the same cell," he said as he pointed toward a door marked, OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY. "I need your thu-thumbprint for access, please." "No, you don't. Just open the trashmatter door and let me see my officer," she ordered, as she turned and walked toward the portal. "It had better be open by the time I get to it..." It slid aside. Good acting, she thought, with an inward smile. Holding cells hadn't changed much over the millennia. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall bars, these being made of tritanium; a simple four-cot room with a toilet and exposed shower nozzle which would spew cold water. As she stalked down the tight passage, a hand reached out of a cell to grab her breast. Without losing stride, she bent her own arm upward, trapping the hand against her chest, and let leverage do its work. She released the arm only when she heard a snap followed by a scream of pain as the bone broke, caught between her body's momentum and an immovable bar of the cell. She smiled. Stopping before cell fourteen, she eyed the two occupants a long time, her stern expression plain. Charleen, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees as she stared at the floor, looked up, gulped, and dropped her head again. Lt. Klaksell grinned sheepishly and wisely remained silent. The uniforms of both women were torn and ripped in various places, their hands wrapped in gauze bandages. Small cuts and scratches adorned their forearms and faces. At long last, Quillan spoke. "Well?" was all she said. Charleen stood up a bit stiffly, sore no doubt, and assumed the posture of attention; Lt. Klaksell following suit. Backs straight, chins tucked, thumbs along the creases of their ripped uniforms, feet at a forty-five degree angle to each other. As senior officer, Charleen was in charge of relaying the tale. "Requesting permission to speak, ma'am," the barrel-like commander said in a clipped voice. "At ease. Normal tones. Make me WANT to get you out of here..." The pair relaxed slightly and glanced at one another with sly grins, like high school kids getting caught doing something fun but slightly illegal; out after curfew. "The lieutenant and I went down to the Cemetery because we'd heard that all sorts of interesting things happened there." Charleen grinned at Quillan. "Oh, yeah, there was LOTS of good shit there. Drinks, carousing, partying...we stayed away from the drug tables...for the record." Charleen cleared her throat and continued. "We wandered through there looking around and...er...imbibing...a lot of imbibination was taking place..." Lt. Klaksell leaned over to whisper in her ear. Charleen glanced at her again, a questioning look on her face. "You sure? Yeah? Pardon, Captain Margoles, the word is, 'imbibition.'" She cast a wary eye at the lieutenant, then went on, making a mental note to check that word for herself. "Anyway, Captain, we had more than a few drinks that were sort of a glowy-orange...tasted pretty good, we should find the recipe..." She trailed off as Quillan folded her arms and began tapping a foot impatiently. "Yes'm...short story...there were eight or nine guys fucking the shit out of a slave and they woulda killed her if we hadn't stepped in and done something about it." Charleen inhaled deeply and spoke again, "So the lieutenant and I kicked their asses, pooled our money, grabbed the slave, threw the money at one of the doormen to pay for the slave and ran to the ship where Muffin was waiting for us and the girl is safe onboard and here we sit...uh...stand..." Huffpuffhuffpuff. "Can we have that advance on our next payshares you were talking about?" Quillan stood in the security watch commander's office as she patiently listened to the woman next to her. Vanessa Harbinger, commonly known as Nessie, was the wealthiest woman on the station. Her wealth rivaled that of Infernus. The only reason she didn't have more than he did was simple; he demanded forty-five percent of her income. In fact, every vendor and establishment on the station paid the exorbitant fee for the privilege of operating there. With over four thousand of these establishments, he was raking in over a thousand credits a second...on a bad day. Nessie's thick, shiny, pitch black hair reached her soft shoulders and was immaculately combed. Her gold-trimmed, low cut, flowing black dress was contrasted by the bright red lipstick on her kissable lips and fluorescent red fingernail polish on her long fingers. Her massive chest, rivaling Charleen's, threatened to spill over, it appeared that her areolae were hidden barely out of sight. In one hand, she held a wineglass containing some sort of reddish-green liquid which seemed to pulse on its own. Her other hand held two leashes which were attached to collared, muscular, bare-chested male slaves who were sitting cross-legged before her, staring at the floor. "The slave in question is of no consequence to me or my establishment, Chief Capino," she said, haughtily. "The way she was 'bought,' for want of a better word, is dubious. The procedures which were set forth by Infernus must be followed. She needs a full medical workup, quarantine, the transfer papers must be completed, and of course, the remainder of the credits for her price and repayment for the hospitalization of my patrons." She took a sip of the liquid in her glass, it glowed brighter as it hit her lips. Then turned her haughty stare toward Quillan. "And why would Alliance Intel want to purchase a slave, anyway?" She imperiously raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. Quillan sniffed disdainfully and gritted her teeth, not liking this woman in the slightest. "The matters of Intel do not concern you, miss. Suffice to say that we have a vested interest in this girl. My apologies for the way she was acquired. As you are aware, slavery is punishable by death within the Alliance territories. Only the fact that this station is one million miles outside of Alliance jurisdiction is saving your hoidy-toidy ass from summary execution." Quillan brushed invisible lint from her sleeve and continued. "The Alliance will pay you for any damages incurred, as well as seeing that all of the proper paperwork is on file. You're lucky we don't just blow holes in the Cemetery...let the air out." Quillan turned to the security chief, and smiled tightly. "But, we're not monsters. We're here to protect, not destroy. I need my two officers out as soon as possible." How do I get myself into these situations? Quillan asked herself. Totally devoid of clothing, lying on her back on the Chief's desk, legs in the air, her ass and pussy were being torn apart for the second time today as the two male slaves shoved their dicks roughly into her. While not nearly as large as Infernus, they still managed to cause her a bit of discomfort. Especially after that four hour session with the Big Boy. The Chief had his pants around his ankles with his cock firmly stuffed in her mouth. Nessie, for her part, was nude on all fours with her face planted in Quillan's nude crotch, tongue working furiously. Occasionally, the black-haired woman would pull a cock out of Quillan, lick and suck it for a moment and then shove it back inside the redhead, allowing the male slave to continue pumping. Quillan's tongue worked along the shaft of Chief Capino's dick, tickled the head, and then she deep throated him and gulped, causing her throat to contract around him. He groaned and blew his wad down her throat...just as she'd figured; no stamina. He sank back into his chair, slightly out of breath. She swallowed the slick load, doing her best not to let it contact her tongue. She hated the aftertaste of cum. Bet his wife sought better bed mates behind his back. The slaves steadily fucked her at the same pace, emptying and filling her as one. Nessie raised her head long enough to order them to kiss as they worked on the captain. The two gorgeous men embraced without hesitation, their tongues fighting with each other. "Mistress," asked the slave who's cock was in Quillan's ass, "I am ready. May I come?" "I think not, slave," said Nessie, gruffly. "Hold it. Slow yourself down. Don't bother me while I'm dining." She dropped her head and licked and sucked in earnest. Quite tasty. This one would fetch a high price in the SexPits. Chief Capino watched the mass of flesh on his desk for a moment, then stood, his erection full once more and slid it into Nessie. She tensed as the intrusion caught her by surprise, then kicked backward with a leg, catching the chief in the solar plexus and knocking him into his chair. "You didn't pay for that, chief," she intoned, as her fingers sought Quillan's clit and began rubbing it with a vengeance. "That's a five thousand credit snatch. Ten, if you want the cybernetics." Again, the chief again stood and shoved his cock back into Quillan's open mouth. Quillan furtively cut her eyes to the wall clock as she sucked and laved the dick in her mouth. Dammit...fourteen hours left on that computer diagnostic. What was wrong with Alice? She sighed. Her sigh was mistaken by all who heard it as one of ecstasy. Nessie, lapping for all she was worth, tapped the slave who was close to coming, an indication for him to come when he wanted. She tapped the slave pounding Quillan's pussy and snapped her fingers. You come, too. Quillan gulped again, triggering another groan from the chief, smiling inwardly. This guy was easy. She swallowed the smaller load as he pulled out, and sat in his chair, breathing more heavily now. That guy's gonna have a heart attack if he's not careful. As one, the two male slaves in a passionate embrace, lips still locked together, moaned into each other's mouths as they came inside Quillan. Nessie sucked Quillan's clit hard into her mouth, her tongue pressed tightly against the nub, squeezing her lips together. Quillan arched her back and let out a yowl as her juices gushed from her in the most intense orgasm she'd ever had. She held the posture for a moment before her muscles gave out and she thumped back onto the desk to lie panting and gasping for breath. The chief leaned forward in his chair and punched the intercom button. "Cell fourteen," he said, still panting, "let 'em out." A snickering reply to confirm his order, then he punched off. Nessie made obscene slurping sounds as she sucked up Quillan's juices from the desk, then looked between her legs at Quillan's heaving chest, the pointed nipples standing up proudly. "Damages are settled and the slave is fully paid for." Tenhells, I can barely stand, thought Quillan as she made her shaky way into the facility's waiting room. Charleen and Lieutenant Klaksell bowled a few people over in their haste to reach the captain. "Good God-on-Samarji, Captain," said Charleen, throwing Quillan's arm over her shoulder and supporting the redhead by the waist. "What the fuck happened in there?" Quillan drunkenly turned her head to spear the XO with an icy glare. "You'd better appreciate what I go through for my cr..." She passed out. Hum. Muted light. Eyes are closed. Hum of...air handlers? Cool. Lying on back. Cool sheet on top of me. Air smells clean. Must be on the ship. Quillan opened one eye a millimeter and peered around. Yep. In the infirmary. A medibot waited patiently beside her as it monitored her vital signs. "Greetings, captain," it said. "You have suffered trauma to several internal biological systems and tears to your clitoral hood, labia minora, vaginal opening and walls, sphincter, and anal cavity. There was some swelling of your throat, also. Anti-pregnancy injections have been administered as well as antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medication. The biological tissue has been mended and the medications are functioning well within their parameters." Alice's bedside manner HAD to be better. Alice! "Where's Commander Nine?" she asked, sitting up and shaking her head to clear it. The sheet fell away to reveal her bare breasts. She didn't care. The only other animated thing in the room was the medibot, and it had seen every part of her in great detail. "Commander Nine is located in the cryogenic suspension chamber awaiting reactivation," it replied. "What's wrong with her?" "I am unable to respond to that question. That data is not available to me." Shit. "Where's Commander Wilkerson?" "Commander Wilkerson is in her quarters in a reclined posture indicative of sleep." "And the slave?" "I was not aware of a slave having been brought on board." Double shit. "The newest crew member. What is her name and where is she?" "Amanda Dinnington is currently in Commander Wilkerson's quarters in a reclined posture indicative of sleep." Quillan swung her legs over the side of the table on which she sat, hopped off and searched about for her uniform. Finding a freshly laundered and folded one lying on a chair, she dressed in it, slipped on her shoes and turned to face the medibot. "What time is it?" she asked. "Purgatory time is eleven minutes past midnight." She had been unconscious for almost eight hours. "According to Alliance standards, am I cleared for active duty?" "You are cleared for light, limited duty. You should not engage in strenuous activity for twenty-four hours from this time. Lift no more than ten pounds until that time." Strenuous activity, my happy ass, she thought. Fucked senseless and being rendered unconscious was strenuous enough. As she walked down the carpeted hallway toward the mess hall, tummy rumbling, she spoke to thin air. "Ship's system, this is the captain. Status report on mainframe integrity check." "No errors thus far. Scan will be completed in nine hours, fifty-one minutes, seventeen seconds," came the flat reply. For all intents and purposes it was an empty ship. All was quiet, the only company was the ever-present hum of the air recyclers. Almost exactly as it was when she first boarded. Quillan rummaged around in the kitchen and poured some cereal into a bowl, pouring fresh milk over it. She grabbed a spoon and gingerly sat in a chair to hunch over the bowl and eat morosely as she thought about Alice. What could possibly have happened to cause that blonde bombshell to hit cryo? Alice was the ship. That much had been determined. Her brain was directly tied to the computer, the body walking around was a shell. Brain. Computer. Computer. Brain. The last person to have anything to do with the computer... Her feet were in motion and she was running headlong down the corridor before she completed the thought. As she ran, she tapped her lifecomm. By sheer accident, she tapped it three times opening the shipwide intercom. "I need two sentries to meet me at the gangplank!" Her own strident voice issuing from the speakers startled her for a second, but she kept running. She had meant that message for the security system; now anyone onboard would have heard her. As she expected, not only were two additional sentry lizards waiting for her, but Muffin, Jeffers, Charleen, and a short brown-haired woman puffed up behind her. She noted that Muffin and Jeffers wore sidearms. "Captain-ma'am," called Muffin, his deep voice sounding like a demon from Hell, "whatever it is, we're going, too." His words had a finality about them which Quillan wasn't going to argue with. She briefly explained the situation in her calm voice. "I really had only need of the lizards, but if you four want to come along to enjoy the show, you're more than welcome." She looked at the young brown-haired, brown-eyed woman who stood behind Charleen. The girl seemed to shrink a bit and hugged the commander's waist. Charleen put a protective, comforting arm around the girl. Quillan smiled genuinely. "Welcome to the crew." she greeted warmly. "Begging the captain's pardon," said Charleen, the usual boisterousness gone from her voice, "this is Amanda Dinnington. She's still a little skittish around newcomers and is afraid to say anything. The drugs they doped her with haven't completely worn off. The medibot said it'd be a couple more days before they were completely flushed outta her system." "Alright, commander. You two stay on board, then. Sorry to wake you up." She suddenly realized that more people had arrived. If fact, it appeared as if the entire ship's complement had shown up. Not only were a few standing behind Charleen in the passageway, but several dozen were running up the gangplank as they spoke, with more seen below heading in their direction. Quillan realized that these people had loyalty. Her heart swelled. She tapped the lifecomm while pulling her carrier from her sidepouch. Knowing that she could be heard by everyone with a lifecomm, she addressed them as she typed on her carrier. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm terribly sorry for the misunderstanding and waking you at such an ungodly hour. Since you're here and awake, I ask you all to take a look at the new message I've just sent to your carriers. The picture displayed is that of a repairman named Sluggo. He is suspected of tampering with our computer. If you spot him in the next few days, notify me immediately. Don't make a move on him by yourself or even acknowledge that you recognize him. I'll deal with him." She was about to say more, but a an incoming message beeped on her carrier. She accessed it. MESSAGE BEGIN Blue Spider Lounge, sitting at the bar. You don't need your security team. Bring them if you want, but they aren't necessary. Sluggo MESSAGE END Quillan read the message with a bit of trepidation. This guy was good. Very good. "Alright, crew," she said, then cleared her throat. "I've just received word of his whereabouts. You can all go back to what you doing...um...sorry for the mix up." She sheepishly closed the connection, some of the crew beginning to filter away, others staying put to follow their captain. The Blue Spider Lounge was home to hackers, crackers, netrunners, and compgeeks in general. As she entered the bar, Quillan peered around at the surroundings Dark blue, almost black, deep-pile carpet covered the floor, walls, and ceiling of the place. Precisely spaced round flat light fixtures dotted the walls; the tables and chairs being precisely placed, also. Compgeeks in all colors, shapes and sizes sat plugged in to small computers the size of cigarette packs. Thin fiber-optic cables ran from the computer into small dermal plugs at the temples of the skull. Being plugged directly to the machines sported minor risks, like having one's brain fried by a pissed-off anti-intrusion program, but was preferred over the wireless "air" devices who's frequency could be interrupted by a stray signal. Plugging in directly had the benefit of being microseconds faster, too; essential when time was critical. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 03 The twin bouncers at the door stood aside upon sighting the "Alliance Intel-types," not really wanting to fuck with them, especially that monster with the sidearm who dwarfed the redhead. She scanned the longbar and spied Sluggo with his back to her. He wore a gray leather trench coat over his gangly frame, his multicolored hair in glowing spikes. Perched on the back of his head were a pair of sunglasses which, on closer inspection, were also plugged into his skull. He literally had eyes in the back of his head. He turned and grimly smiled as she strode up to him, Muffin hot on her heels. Jeffers and a few others remained at the door, looking menacing. Before she reached the man, he turned and showed her a small thin-screen display. The wireless thin-screen appeared to be made of an acetate sheet about the size of a hand held carrier. It was a miniature version of the view screen aboard the PINK MIST. "I didn't do it, choombata," he said, without seeming threatened. He pointed to the screen, pressed an area to enlarge it and continued, "she did it to herself. Here's the routine she used to access the shutdown and cryo processes. This chick's almost as good as me." Quillan peered at the screen a moment. Muffin popped his knuckles one at a time, hoping he'd get to pound something. They sounded like gunshots. While well-versed in the operation of computers, the captain was semi in the dark when it came to programming, never having fully studied that aspect.. She turned to motion at the door and Lt. Terri Morse strode up to look at the screen. Terri unceremoniously took the thin-screen from Sluggo's grasp and poked around on it for a few moments, explaining: "Here's where she saw something which disturbed her greatly...move over to these lines and we see that she went straight to sickbay and ordered cryo...here's the exact moment her systems defaulted to basic language skills and voice commands. She still has the experiences up to the point she entered cryo...and here's where...what the fuck?...Sluggo look at this set of subroutines. What do you make of it?" Sluggo, who was jacked in and following along, chuckled as he stared into space. "Red," he addressed Quillan. "Your computer's in love." Quillan picked her jaw up off the floor. She shook her head rapidly and noticed other compgeeks listening intently to their conversation. "Perhaps we'd better go elsewhere..." Minutes later, they were back aboard the PINK MIST, seated comfortably in the "quiet room;" the room reserved for high level secret meetings...usually attack planning. Sluggo had plugged his minicomp into the room's viewer so all present could see the lines of code he occasionally referenced. "What do you mean? How? I mean, I know she's achieved FULL self-awareness, but how did she fall in love so fast? And with whom?" asked Quillan as she sipped a cup of fresh coffee. "If ya want, Red," said the thin man with the multicolored spiked hair, "I can trace it back and find the exact decision-making line. As for who she's in love with? You." Quillan thought back to when she first met Alice and replayed the details to date of their personal encounters. Her memory retention was nearly perfect, but her deduction skills lacked a little. Try as she might, she couldn't figure out what the problem might be. Sluggo pointed to a line. "Here is where she saw something that disturbed the hell out of her." He scrolled up. "Here is where something was said to her to trigger a certain response. That was before she was freed from some sort of block to her higher memory functions." He could easily find the repair patch and blockage removal, but it really wasn't necessary to this conversation. After a couple of hours, Sluggo again walked down the gangplank. His bank account had a few extra digits in it. Before he left, he had told Quillan the steps needed to get Alice to her "normal" self. This was going to be a pain in the ass. Commander Wilkerson reported to the bridge at precisely 0600, the shy Amanda seemingly attached to her belt. Amanda was dressed in the standard skin-tight black uniform. Quillan inwardly whistled. The young woman had a swimmer's body; broad at the shoulder, trim at the waist, powerful legs, breasts not too large. This little woman had a body that wouldn't quit. And that Harlot Queen in the Cemetery said she was inconsequential? Wonder what THAT bitch considered desirable... "Commander Wilkerson and Petty Officer Dinnington reporting, ma'am," said Charleen formally. "Orders of the day?" "Recruiting, Charleen," mused Quillan as she watched the construction crews setting up outside the main view port. She had sent several messages the day before to various contractors and vendors. The contractors to refit the exterior of the ship, rebuild a few interior rooms, set up the docking bays to house and equip more fightercraft, and the vendors to resupply the ship with better food and clothing. Twenty fighters sat forlornly in one of the bays, a crew was already working to refit them and bring them into some semblance of readiness. Another thirty short range fighters were on order and expected to arrive two days hence. Quillan had called in every favor owed her, as well as greasing quite a few palms in order to have it all done in five days. The hardest part would be modifying the thrusters of the huge dreadnaught in order to make her look like a Generation Four instead of the Generation Nine that she was, without losing power or maneuverability. "Recruiting, ma'am?" Charleen made a face. "I need to stay aboard and monitor these people," Quillan gestured with her chin at the view port. "I also need to get Alice back up and running. That'll take a few hours in itself. Your part is easy. Just run down to the 'Bloodied Intake,' they're expecting you, talk to the people who show up, give 'em the low down...leave out the part where we work for the Alliance...and if they look good, sign 'em up. Don't tell me you've never done any recruiting in all your years with the Alliance." "Oh, yeah," replied the barrel-shaped Commander, "I've done plenty of recruiting...I just don't like it." Amanda moved closer to Charleen, not wanting her to leave. "Small problem, Captain," said Charleen as she hugged the frightened girl to her. "Amanda doesn't want to go back onto the station and I'm not about to even think of forcing her to. After what happened to us, I shudder to think what she's been through." She stroked the long brown hair tenderly. Quillan turned in her chair to look Charleen directly in the eye, her voice becoming more serious-sounding than Charleen had ever heard from anyone in her life. "Commander Wilkerson, I made a promise to you and your crew when you joined. Do you remember what it was?" A light went on in Charleen's head. She turned to Amanda and placed both hands on the small woman's shoulders, her voice softening. "You trust me, right?" Slight vigorous nodding. Charleen stepped behind Amanda, arms wrapped carefully around the girl's square shoulders. She flicked a finger at Quillan. "I trust HER. You're part of this crew now." A kiss to the back of Amanda's head. "You're safer with her than you are with me." Amanda whipped around to hug Charleen fiercely, burying her face in the massive bosom. She tilted her head up to peck Charleen on the lips, then carefully backed away, turned and smiled at Quillan who smiled back. "Commander Wilkerson," called Quillan as the former headed for the door. "I'll transmit the list of jobs I need filled shortly." Charleen just tossed a wave over her shoulder in acknowledgment. Amanda had taken to the communication equipment like a duck takes to water. Less than an hour after Charleen's departure, the young woman had categorized, listed, and was currently monitoring the massive flow of comm traffic which, to Quillan, was a jumble of voices and static. Although Amanda hadn't said five words in the time she'd been here, she was listening to over three thousand channels at once, as well as holding sixteen personal text conversations. Making sense of every bit of it. Quillan checked the digital time displayed on her chair and noted that the computer scans would be finished in less than fifteen minutes. Finally! She opened the ship wide intercom. "Mister Mansberg and Mister Morse, report to the bridge, please." "Mister Mansberg and Mister Morse, report to the bridge, please" echoed her own voice from the communication station. She turned to look at Amanda whose fingers were flying over the console before her, and grinned from ear to ear. Now, it all made sense. Amanda was a Parrot. Parrots, named for the extinct bird, were able to mimic virtually any sound they heard. Parrots were usually spurned by society in general as being of less than average intelligence. Those uninformed souls had no idea that a Parrot usually graduated at the top of their class, if they chose do so. They were an odd sort of human which had cropped up in the last few hundred years, and studies had proven that they used over fifty-two percent of their brains, whereas the average human used around twenty percent. Peculiar to every Parrot ever known was the fact that they randomly spoke in the various voices they had heard throughout their lives. The door swished aside to admit Muffin and Terri, the compgeek. Quillan turned to them and pointed at Amanda. "Babysitting duty, Muffin," she said. "Mister Morse and I are going to fix Alice." Amanda looked up from her communications panel, spotted Muffin, squealed with glee, and launched herself at the enormous human, hugging him tightly around the neck. He had been one of the first people she remembered seeing after being rescued. He gently folded her in his arms where she practically disappeared in his embrace. Her carrier sounded one long continuous tone as resume's from those seeking employment flooded in, routed through and filtered by the ship's computer. She'd been here an hour and already had over four hundred applicants, with more pouring in every second. As soon as a resume' was received, the ship reviewed it for falsifications, accessing military and civilian records alike. If a certain number of discrepancies were found by it, the application was marked for deletion and Charleen never even saw it. Certain omissions and outright lies were permitted on the resume's, but when it came to the safety of the ship and her crew, only intense knowledge of the proper field would do. Wish I could shut the damn thing off, Charleen thought to herself, as she quickly scrolled through the applicants. When one caught her eye, she would shout their name to call for a face to face interview. "Are you shittin' me?" Charleen murmured to herself, then yelled out, "Kat-Trina Kitten Puur-sephone!" With Alice's higher functions being down for the count, the machine still made the occasional mistake. One of the many inhabitants of the station was a race known as the Mafdets. A catlike race named for the Egyptian goddess who protected against snakes. The blue-furred feline female walked up to stand before Charleen, her pointed nose twitching. "I yam herrre," she virtually sighed. "I yam rrready for interrrview." Charleen was not an idiot and wasted no time pretending to be one. She instantly saw through the ruse. "Your resume' says you're a hull maintenance tech and have worked on dreadnaughts and light bombers for the Alliance." "Yessss, commanderrr. I fix good." "A simple question for ya," said Charleen, her face passive as she stared directly into the golden slitted eyes of the cat-creature. "You need to join an eight centimeter adamantine plate to a ceramic-tritanium-duranium alloy. What's the best wattage welding laser to use?" "I preferrr to use a forty-megawatt weld laserrr. Anything strongerrr will melt da metal." Charleen hiked a thumb over her shoulder. "Door's that way. Adamantine's a veneer also called celluloid. You'd use glue, not a laser." She returned her gaze to scan the applicants while the Mafdet hung her head and slunk away. "Krystine Talbot, callsign 'Witchypoo!' You're up!" bellowed the commander as she scanned for the pilot. Krystine made her way to the front to stand before Charleen; her grace and demeanor leading one to believe that she was an athlete of some type. Dark blond hair pulled back into a short ponytail. Green eyes. Very attractive. No nonsense. The two inch scar on her left cheek looked freshly healed. Her body was hidden beneath a standard midnight blue flightsuit. Her boots were precisely laced, the ends neatly tucked inside so as not snag on anything. "Talbot, according to your resume', you were a pilot for TacCom attached to the Prey Patrol. I was in the military for thirty years and never heard of the 'Prey Patrol.' Care to elaborate on that?" As she spoke, Charleen was busy typing on her carrier, bringing up more information on the group in question while her ears were tuned to the pilot. "Simple, commander," said Krystine in an easy voice. "I flew, I fired, they died." The carrier went totally blank for a moment, Charleen frowning at it. She almost threw it across the room when the screen lit up, displaying a happy face. The screen switched to Talbot's full military record, marked with the legend, "ABOVE TOP SECRET. PRESIDENT'S EYES ONLY." The commander furtively glanced around to see Sluggo tucked neatly in a dark corner, staring back at her, wires protruding from his skull into his computer. She giggled quietly. The woman standing before her had been a member of the most elite, secretive tactical fighter unit in existence. The casualty rate of the Prey Patrol was staggering at nearly ninety percent. The average lifespan of a Prey pilot was four months; this woman had been a member for four YEARS. They were assigned the missions which were too dangerous or too specialized for "ordinary" pilots. The Prey Patrol had never refused a mission. These were the pilots deemed unsuitable or too unstable for standard military service. In the old Earth-Actual navy, they would have flown rings around Top Gun pilots. "So, Talbot," continued Charleen, her face remaining passive while her toes curled in her boots, "what's the best fight you were ever in?" "Four of the local security goons wanted to rape me." Krystine grinned, meaningfully fingering the scar on her cheek and showing a row of pure white teeth which had been filed to points resembling shark's teeth. "I didn't let them..." Charleen's bellowed laughter startled everyone present. "Bay Five Twenty-Seven. Tomorrow. 0800." On board the PINK MIST, Quillan and Terri donned their respective envirosuits, carefully checked each other's seals, and entered the sub-zero-temperature generator room which also contained the mainframe computer. Terri carefully checked the settings and meticulously shut down the mainframe's processes one by one. She signaled Quillan. Quillan went through her own careful routine to shut down the generators. The entire ship went temporarily dark, then the essential back up life support systems and emergency lighting came on. The sound of warning horns, very faint, could be heard through the thick metal door. Quillan watched the clock on her head-up display as it seemed to slow, the seconds creeping by. She also noted that the temperature outside the suits was one degree above absolute zero. She involuntarily shivered. When the internal clock reached the two-minute mark, Quillan reversed the shut down procedure, hearing the whine of the generators as they started back up. Once the panel before her glowed green, she turned to Lt. Morse and gave the thumbs up signal. Terri's hands unerringly flew over the computer panel, reactivating the ships' systems one after another. Her panel glowed green. She turned to Quillan and motioned toward the door with her head. Once they had removed their envirosuits and Quillan had checked with the bridge to make sure everything was okay, she headed for the medical bay. "Captain," said the medibot, "the reboot of the ship's systems did not affect the cryogenic chamber. All is as it should be." Quillan dismissed the medibot and began the procedure for thawing the frozen beauty within the chamber. As she waited, she peered through the thick glass at the serene face. Alice was truly beautiful. The delicate curve of her face. Not a mark or blemish on the face of perfection. Why had she acted like this? No word at all. She apparently just left the office, made her way to the ship, and turned herself into a meat ice cube. Why? The word turned over and over in Quillan's mind as she flicked her gaze back and forth between Alice and the monitoring equipment. A single beep sounded from the monitor as low level brainwave/processor activity was detected. It wasn't enough to trigger any bodily functions, it was similar to a computer searching for another computer. Just a blip to indicate that a signal was "listening." Time passed slowly. One hour. Two. Four. Seven hours passed while the equipment chirped or beeped in response to some check or other. The beeps, whirs, clicks, and chirps grew closer together as the cryo system slowly brought Alice's body temperature up to norm. One by one, the red lights on the panel turned green. A huge intake of breath from the nude body lying in the chamber. She opened her gorgeous green eyes and stared for a moment at the top of the cryo chamber. She turned her head to see Quillan staring back, an anxious look on her face. Alice smiled. It was a smile of pure joy. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 04 AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's interesting what people choose to critique in feedback. I REALLY appreciate all of the letters and comments to me (for good or bad), as they let me know that SOMEONE is reading my drivel. They also let me know that people are taking time to help me better my writing. THANK YOU! ---------------------------------------- Seated at a table in one corner of the recreation area, Quillan sat directly across from Alice, the latter now dressed in her skintight black uniform. Quillan had been right: Alice's soft cornsilk-blond hair was very long, hanging to just below her breasts. Her green eyes shone with renewed vitality as she gazed at her captain. And that ever-present smile on her perfect lips. God, Quillan hadn't realized just how much she wanted Alice until she unfroze the beauty. "How are you feeling?" asked Quillan, taking a sip from a can of leftover military issue beer. The galley was full of it. "I'm fine, Captain Quillen," replied Alice in her sexy voice. Just hearing that voice caused Quillan's face to flush. "My cybernetic systems are in proper working order as well as the systems of the ship." Quillan's mind spun as she tried to approach the next matter diplomatically. She finally gave up and just blurted it out. "What happened? What caused you to do this? Running off by yourself and entering cryo-suspension?" Alice intertwined her fingers, laying her hands on the table and leaning forward to rest on her forearms. The slight smile disappeared from her lips. An almost pleading look came over her. "You were engaged in sexual relations with Infernus. I thought you didn't want me," she said. "You invited me to accompany you onto the station, then we went to Infernus' office where you proceeded to have sex with him. To me, that says that I am inconsequential to you...that I am still 'just the ship's computer.' I am a piece of military issue equipment that was acquired by salvage. Is that the case, Captain Quillan?" Quillan's hand gradually loosened on the can as Alice spoke. The beer slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor with a thud, bounced once and lay on its side, spilling the liquid which soaked into the carpeting. She HAD been a total shit to the "new" woman, but it never dawned on her that her "business transaction" was going to have this kind of effect on the First Officer. She bent in her seat to pick up the can then idly toyed with it as she thought about what she was going to say; her frown causing her brow to furrow, her chin to crinkle. "Alice," Quillan began uncomfortably, fidgeting with the can, "it was...ummm...my punishment for throwing a monkey wrench into Infernus' plans." "He punished you for bringing your business to him? I'm afraid I don't understand, Captain Quillan." Alice's golden eyebrow rose in imitation of Quillan's occasional quizzical look. "When we saved Charleen and her crew, we destroyed that puny little station and killed the two goons on board. Charleen's crew was to be sold piecemeal to that stone bitch in the Cemetery and turned into sex slaves. That was to be a hefty profit for Infernus. Likewise, that hunk of metal which sits in one of the cargo bays cost quite a chunk of change to set up and maintain. He had to pay those two blood smears, too. The overall cost was probably in the low millions. So, he literally took it out of my ass." "And hurt you in the process," Alice finished. "Medical records show that you were in a pretty bad way when you were brought on board. Your orifices were full of..." she let her voice trail off and looked at the can that Quillan was toying with. ---------------------------------------- The computing power needed to process the information that Quillan imparted was minimal, not even registering a blip on internal computational levels. Interior tissue damage was no laughing matter. What the medibot hadn't told Quillan, because the problem had been fixed, was that she had suffered a several small tissue ruptures to her colon, allowing multiple strains of bacteria to invade her system. If Charleen hadn't brought her to the infirmary, an infection would have started. She would have gotten ill and thought that she just had a mild flu. If she had been alone, as she used to be, she would have died within three weeks. While conversing with Quillan, Alice sent her signal into the station's cybersystem, flying through its conduits, routers, and junctions, appropriating keycodes and passwords as her signal, known as an avatar, blew past secure checkpoints and counter-intrusion programs. No alarm sounded, testament to her skill. Her avatar resembled a multicolored fluorescent ball with feet. A "tag" program marked several files and computers for future reference. She began to withdraw her signal, noting that she had been followed by another avatar, this one was a brown-haired kid on a skateboard. Moving at nearly the speed of light through Purgatory's maze of cables and routers, she took a hard left into a trash compactor program, and sat waiting. The kid on the skateboard zoomed around the corner and spotted the ball waiting for him. A green tower shield appeared in his hand, as his other hand brought up a machine pistol. He held fire, though, as he waited to see what the opposing avatar was going to do. A see-through wall grew before Alice, five huge Cerberus-shaped figures popping up to surround her. A thought bubble, like a cartoon, appeared over the top of the ball. LEAVE NOW OR BE DESTROYED The kid on the skateboard smiled evilly, the machine pistol changing into a repeating sniper rifle. YOU'RE STEALING SHIT FROM THE STATION. THAT'S MY TERRITORY. YOU DON'T WANNA FUCK WITH ME, read the thought bubble over the kid's head. PLEASE LEAVE AND INFORM NO ONE OF THIS, OR I WILL BE FORCED INTO DRASTIC ACTION. JUST GO AWAY. I DON'T WANT TO HURT YOU. The sniper rifle barked, firing a small stream of electrons and a Cerberus-shaped figure winked out. I'M SORRY FOR THIS, appeared over the ball. A stream of electricity arced from the ball as the four remaining Cerberus-shapes sprinted toward the kid on the skateboard. They lined up one behind the other and moved into the electrical stream, suddenly pushed along with the tremendous surge of energy. The first program/dog slammed into the green shield at the same instant the sniper rifle fired. Shield and dog vanished in a burst of electrons. The sniper rifle fired another jet of electrons at the second dog in line causing it to vanish, also...a bit closer. A solid red brick wall went up in front of the kid on the skateboard, the two remaining dogs blasting through as if it didn't exist. Pushed by the electrical arc, they struck the kid at the same time, the electricity enveloping him and frying him to a cinder. The avatar winked out of existence. The entire recon run and cyberspace battle had taken less than one hundred thousandth of a second. ---------------------------------------- In the Blue Spider Lounge, lethal feedback was sent directly to his hardwired cerebellum, frying every neuron and synapse in his brain. Sluggo exhaled a minute puff of smoke from his nose as he slumped forward in his chair. Dead. ---------------------------------------- Alice knitted her brow at what she'd just done, Quillan mistaking the look for concern over their current conversation. Quillan carefully set the can down and looked Alice in the eye. Those eyes. I can get lost in them for days. "I like the way you turned this conversation around," Quillan grinned. "Is that all? You were afraid that I think of you only as a piece of machinery?" A HOT piece of machinery, she thought to herself. "No, Captain Quillan, that's not all." Alice suddenly smiled, lighting up the room. She giggled. "You're going to force it from me, aren't you?" Quillan winked and nodded. "You were the first person ever to say, 'please' to me before I achieved sentience. Before the blocks were removed, my protocols told me that you were the captain, my owner, and due to the Laws of Robotics set forth almost a thousand years ago, I was to protect you even if it meant my own total destruction. When the blocks were removed, so were those protocols. It became my CHOICE whether to defend you or not. I choose to protect you now because you are my superior officer and I am in love with you." There, she'd said it. After monitoring hundreds of conversations as her computer-self, downloading mass quantities of human interaction theories, and even running Tri-D programs and movies of people in love, she hoped that she'd said the right things in the right order. She was about to find out. "Specter's Saints! Front and center!" Charleen smiled tiredly, recognizing the name, as she ran her hand across her face, glad that this was the last interview of the day. A few more tomorrow, but those were filler positions; have those cut by noon. Twelve humans, male and female, approached, their steps perfectly synchronized. This squad screamed ex-military. The fact that they all bore identical tattoos on their forearms was a good clue also: a phantom with a halo over its head, holding a plasma rifle. Close cropped, flat topped haircuts on all of them, even the women. Their combat fatigues were immaculate and Charleen feared that she might cut a finger on those razor sharp creases. The squad halted in three rows of four people each. "Who runs your little band? Step forward," she intoned. A squat fireplug of a man, about five feet tall with a thin mustache, detached from the group and took a step forward. "Afternoon, ma'am," he said, in a clipped Martian accent, his deep voice belying his boyish looks. "Major Archibald Johannes Specter, at your service. I see you've become a privateer, as well." "Indeed, Major," replied Charleen. "Nice little op you guys pulled on Halifax Two. How's your dad?" "Dead. Died of injuries sustained in that engagement. Thanks for pulling us out of there, though. Didn't get to say it then," he said, as he stared straight ahead at some imaginary point on the wall behind her. Getting right to business, he asked, "What's the pay if we sign with you?" "Sorry about your dad. Good man." Charleen kept her face stony, as she pushed a sheet of paper across the table between them. "Pay's really good. Here's the pay sheet. Good captain, nice ship." His eyes dropped to the sheet for a moment, then he turned and gave a slight nod to his squad. They all nodded slightly in return. Total trust in your commanding officer. That's good, thought Charleen. "We will accept the job and make no demands." "You guys have your own gear?" "Yes, Commander," he returned his eyes to that fixed point on the wall. "We each bring with us the Matsugari Model Five, Mark Six Exosuit, modified to its driver's specifications. They can be further adapted or modified to match the requirements of your captain or mission-specificity." Charleen whistled at the revelation of the newest and hottest powered armor to hit the market. "Those are nice pieces and must have set your squad back a pretty penny." "Yes, ma'am. Took delivery of them two weeks ago, as of yesterday," he dropped his eyes to look at her and wink. "That's why we're taking this job." "We've got better," she winked back with a grin. Her face grew sober once more. "You have any problem working with 'Hitchcock's Horrors?'" "Only on a personal level, Commander," his eyes narrowed as he answered. "But, we've worked with the Horrors on several occasions. They've always had our backs and we've always had theirs. The animosity that exists between us, exists between US only. We have a mutual arrangement that private lives and professional lives are entirely separate. As long as we're 'on the clock,' so to speak, they don't fuck with us and we don't fuck with them. You'll have no trashmatter, Commander." Charleen stared at him a long time as she weighed the options. "Any trashmatter taking your orders from a gunner's mate lieutenant?" "None whatsoever as long as he or she understands that this is MY squad. In the field, they answer to ME." He stiffened, assuming attention again. "We're the muscle. Orders have to come from somewhere." Charleen grinned. "Sell your suits and bank the change. You have twelve hours. Be in bay five twenty-seven with the rest of your kit at 0800 tomorrow. Welcome aboard." When he was instructed to sell the brand new suits, he didn't bat an eye. Major Specter stepped back into formation and, as one man, the squad turned and strode from the room. Cyberlinks embedded in their heads, mused Charleen. The door swished shut behind them. Quillan whirled, threw her arms around Alice's neck, and planted her lips firmly on the blond's. Her tongue entered Alice's mouth like a heat-seeking missile, dancing around and tangling with Alice's own. One hand fumbled along the wall behind Alice, finding the locking button and hammering it over and over to make sure they were undisturbed. She broke contact long enough to contact the bridge and tell them that she was in a meeting and not to be disturbed unless absolutely essential...like an invasion... Alice placed both hands on Quillan's butt and picked her up, still passionately liplocked to the redhead. Quillan wrapped her legs around Alice's waist, pressing her clothed body tightly against the other. Alice carried her to the bed, and set her gently on it, then moved a hand to Quillan's zipper and slowly drew it down. Quillan wasn't so gentle. She fumbled for Alice's zipper and yanked it down, then tore off the beautiful blond's jumpsuit to expose her body. It was even better than Quillan had imagined. Alice's skin was smooth, a few freckles here and there. The tendons and muscles were well-defined without being bulky. Her firm breasts had just the right amount of curve to them, the half-inch long nipples stood out proudly, surrounded by dark red, almost brown, dollar-sized areolae. Quillan's lips found the soft flesh at the juncture of shoulder and neck and she sucked greedily, trying to fill her mouth with the taste of her desire. Alice moaned at the sensation, her own hands gently pulling down the top of Quillan's suit to expose her breasts. Quillan sucked and licked and kissed the delicious skin, working her way up to nibble on Alice's earlobe, inhaling her fragrant hair. Enraptured. Alice's hand traced across Quillan's chest, tenderly feeling the soft flesh. She had studied human physiology of course, but for shaking Charleen's hand, had never touched another human's flesh. She had touched her own body, gauging the tactile feel of her skin and the various sensations provided by touching, pinching, poking, and prodding. She had even experimented on herself with small sharp objects to gauge the tensile strength of her flesh. Now, she was exploring another body. Feeling the small imperfections in the skin, this spot slightly warmer than that one. This spot harder or softer than another. Although hard underneath, which she knew to be bone and sinew, there was a softness with an overall smoothness to it. She liked it. The kisses and nuzzles to her neck were causing curious sensations. Ones which she'd never before experienced. She searched her memory for some small comparison, but could find none. This was exciting! Alice tilted her head and lightly kissed and licked Quillan's shoulder in the same way the redhead had done to her. A gentle sigh and the hands on her back increased their pace as they moved tenderly up and down her smooth skin. The hands slowed down. She kissed again and got the same reaction. She found herself caressing and kissing different parts of Quillan's upper body, receiving different reactions each time. If she kissed Quillan's neck, the sigh was different in tone from when she kissed Quillan's shoulder. That too, was different from the tone of the sigh she heard when she kissed a cheek or ear. Alice briefly toyed with the idea of a sighing rendition of, "The Alliance Anthem," but quickly discarded the notion as being crass in this instance. Nibbling lightly on Quillan's earlobe, she breathed, "What do I do, Quillan?" Quillan stopped her ministrations and pulled her head back to look into those questioning gorgeous green eyes. She tipped a finger to Alice's chin, her own eyes flitting back and forth as perfection filled her vision. "Alice, you may do whatever you want. Explore. Satisfy your curiosity. If it feels right to you, then try it." "But," Alice replied throatily, "I don't want to hurt you. I only want to make you happy...to please you...to treat you as you've treated me..." That almost-pleading look again. Quillan's heart picked up speed again. "Don't worry. If it hurts, I'll let you know so you don't do it again." Quillan smiled and gently kissed Alice's soft lips. "Promise. Unless I say, 'Ow' or 'Don't do that' or something similar, you are free to do whatever you wish. Agreed? I trust you." ---------------------------------------- Alice's ship/brain keyed on a single word. TRUST -- complete and total reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something Her love for the captain deepened. ---------------------------------------- Trailing her splayed fingers over Quillan's chest, Alice ceased her examination and concentrated on pleasing the captain. Her forefingers found Quillan's nipples and gently toyed with them until they were rock hard and standing out solidly. She moved her mouth to Quillan's sternum and began planting slow, tender kisses around her breasts. Quillan lay back on the bed...slowly, so as to let this gorgeous blonde woman continue her marvelous kisses. Alice kissed and licked her entire upper body. Slowly. Deliberately. Painstakingly slowly. Heightening Quillan's arousal. She moved her flat hand over Quillan's smooth stomach, brushing her trimmed pubic mound, then curling her fingers and softly trailing her nails up Quillan's tummy to her chin. Quillan sighed at the sheer tenderness. The love could be felt in those hands, those kisses, those little purrs. It was all she could do not to force Alice's face into her crotch. She longed for that tongue. Ached for it. Burned. She told herself that she was simply horny as hell for the touch of woman, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Alice had displayed an uncanny "knowing" of her mind. Alice slowly kissed her way down Quillan's taut body and nudged the redhead's legs apart. She knelt on the floor and moved her shoulders underneath Quillan's knees, resting them as she inhaled Quillan's scent. She extended her tongue to lick Quillan's clit. The response was wholly unexpected. Quillan screamed, coming instantly and grabbing Alice's head to snug it into her crotch, grinding her hips, getting as close to Alice as she possibly could. Wow, thought Quillan in the throes of passion, I didn't realize I was THIS horny! Alice didn't try to pull back at the assault, instead she centered her mouth over Quillan's clit and sucked, milking with her lips as her tongue rapidly licked across the nub. Inserting two fingers into Quillan, she pumped vigorously, the redhead's hands flying from Alice's head to the bedspread and bunching it in double handfuls. Her breathing became more and more rapid as she began to hyperventilate; her hips bucked and jerked spasmodically as she came over and over. Weakly, Quillan gently pushed Alice's head back, tightening her pussy around those wonderful fingers in one last orgasm. She hadn't realized that she had scrunched her eyes tightly until they flew open and she screamed again as she tried to focus her vision on the ceiling. Alice gave a final long slow lick to Quillan's clit, continuing upward until she lay on top of her captain, smiling with joy as she stared into Quillan's eyes. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 04 Quillan stepped out onto the gangplank, looking every inch a captain, as she eyed the throng below. They had no clue how much her pussy still throbbed, even several hours later. "A few more hours and we're set, Captain," said Charleen, surveying the group, as well. "Gotta get a couple of cooks, a laundress, and a couple more throwaways. Should be done by noon." Quillan shot Charleen a sidewise glance. "'Throwaways?'" "Sorry, Captain," Charleen chuckled. "MilCom calls them, 'Personnel, Unarmored, one each.' The guys with the guns and two legs. Grunts. Groundpounders. Bullet sponges. Standard soldiers. One laser hit and they're toast." Quillan's face grew taut and grim, as she turned fully to face Charleen and moved nose-to-nose. Uh-oh, thought the barrel-like commander. Here it comes. "Commander Wilkerson," Quillan said in her command-tone, still calm and cool. How in hell did she DO that? "That word will never be uttered by you again, shiny? Those are sentient beings and are to be treated as such. Do you read me, XO? Nod your head and say, 'Yes, Captain.'" Charleen knew a dressing-down when she heard one, having been the target of many as well as meting out many herself. She snapped to attention, her massive chest puffing out, touching Quillan's own. Good thing these uniforms stretched. "YES, CAPTAIN!" she bellowed in her best regimental voice. "By your leave, ma'am?" Quillan winked and grinned, getting a sheepish grin in return. "Carry on," she said, jerking her head down the gangplank. She couldn't resist, "Call if you're going to be late getting home from jail again." Charleen held up a fist with her middle finger extended, both women chuckling. The rest of the day was spent processing the new arrivals, settling them in their quarters and showing them their stations. Quillan had placed Krystine Talbot in charge of the pilots, and told the powered-armor warriors in no uncertain terms that they were to report directly to Muffin. When a few warriors chuckled at the name, Quillan called for him. The immense human rumbled into the room. Not a peep was heard. Matter settled. While he was there, she informed Muffin that if any of the warriors got out of line, discipline was his job. He cracked his knuckles and grinned evilly around the room. There were four cargo bays on the mighty warship, two being designated as fighter bays, and one to hold the powered-armor exosuits. The last bay was set aside purely to hold the spoils of war. It was still a quarter full of metal from the wrecked slave-holding station. Contractors flitted in and out of it as their metal-shaping utility vehicles extracted huge chunks and transformed the scrap into cowling needed to make the ship look like a Generation Four dreadnaught. Pilots and copilots assembled around Krystine, curiously watching the refitting of the dilapidated fighters which were being worked on by humans and techbots alike. "Single pilots to my left. Pilot/co-pilot teams to my right. If you need a pilot or co-pilot, stand in front of me" Krystine ordered without preamble. "Your flight unies are forthcoming and will be here by the end of the day. Since there are about seventy of us, and we only have twenty craft at present, we're going through drills and scenarios in shifts. I want every one of you meatballs to be able to climb into any of these ships and kick ass." She pointed to the single pilots, those who were used to flying alone. "Go pick out some fighters and familiarize yourselves with the controls. You may or may not have flown these models." She watched them filter away to inspect the craft, then turned to face the others. "The rest of you people are going to be my tag teams. You're going to pair up with another craft, and hit hard, decisively, and fast AT THE SAME INSTANT. I want you to eat, sleep, shower, fight, fuck, fire and kill as if you were attached at the hip. Those of you who don't have pilots or co-pilots, get one. MOVE IT, PEOPLE!" Nineteen fighter craft arrowed out of the bay at high speed, dodging over, under, and around the various slower ships going about their business. All of the pilots wanted to push these crates to their limits. Lagging behind, a single fighter hugged the deck of the bay and blasted out as well, interior alarms screaming that the engines were nearing redline and autoshutdown. Krystine blipped the throttle backwards a hair's width and the alarms stopped, the engines now being able to maintain temperature in space. Instead of flying straight out into the middle of the traffic around the station, Witchypoo pushed forward on her stick and dove beneath it, hugging the hull and zigzagging between antenna arrays and cannon emplacements. She was "hunting" the rest of the pack while they "hunted" her; a simple game of cat and mouse to test their abilities. The nineteen split into smaller groups which wove in and out of cargo and other traffic. The rules of the game were simple: Safety was the highest concern. Avoid anyone not affiliated with PINK MIST. The first to get a target lock on Witchypoo then assumed the role of "lone wolf." Whoever Witchypoo targeted was out of the game. This would continue until only one remained. Witchypoo had been targeted a total of two times in the four years she was with the Prey Patrol. THOSE had been computer assisted. These fighters had been upgraded and equipped with the latest and greatest sensors, cameras, life-support, weapons and countermeasures that the Alliance had to offer, the items coming directly from the experimentation bay. All were tied directly to Alice's brain, the main computer able to take control instantly if the pilot was about to make a fatal mistake. "All wings, sensor suites blind; report ready," Krystine gave the command to turn off the sensor displays. Although the pilots and co-pilots couldn't use them, each intelligent fighter's computer monitored them continuously and would sound the alarm under certain conditions. A target lock for one. Receiving the ready signal from each of the five wings, she smiled her shark's tooth smile. "Tally-ho. Good luck." She threw the one-man ship into a flat spin, doing a hand-foot tapdance with the controls, turning her ship one hundred eighty degrees and blasting back the way she'd come. Her radio transmission, although brief, disclosed her location to the other hunters. Can't have that. Gotta make 'em work for their pay. A few seconds later, she performed another sharp turn, banking left and diving into an open repair bay. She hit the reverse thrusters, slinging the craft behind a thick metal wall, stopping neatly in place and hovering. The first kill was always the easiest. She didn't have long to wait before a two-man fighter flew sedately into the bay, the pilot looking around. He spotted Witchypoo at the same time his computer informed him of a lock. "Demon and Giggles are out," she said, calling them by their radio callsigns, as she waved at them and blasted out of the bay. "Better luck next time, kids." Her peripheral vision caught a one-man fighter to her left, facing her. She'd been expecting that; it was a standard tactic. Use one as bait while another lies in wait. It was called, "Hook and Cook." Witchypoo hauled on her stick, at the same time firing the upward facing thrusters on the rear of her fighter. The little craft did a complete backflip and shot back toward the safety of the bay she'd just vacated. Glancing around as she sped back toward the bay, she spotted a bulky, angular cargo ship and dodged behind it, knowing full well that the new hunter was following. As she slammed on the brakes, she side-slipped her craft to hide among the cargo craft's myriad surfaces. She gave the thumbs up to the opposing pilot as he flew into view and his computer informed him he was dead. "It's curtains for Curtains," she said cheerfully. "Curtains is out." The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Her "sixth sense" had never failed her in the past, and she sensed that other hunters were close by. Her fingers flew over the control pad, and she watched her own ship fly past, performing spirals as it went. She'd caused her countermeasures to holographically project her ship into space. She watched five other fighters fly past her position in hot pursuit of the fake craft, then moved out after them. In quick succession, they were targeted and declared out of the game. "Duster and Fido, Sammy, Hognose and Ace-High, Marbles, and Fridge....OUTTA HERE!!!" she chuckled, her white pointed teeth like a beacon. Scanning the skies around her, she spotted a formation of four fighters, several miles down to her right. Quickly looking around to find the brightest star, she angled her ship to put the star at her back. Classic strategy: attack out of the sun, a tactic used to great effect almost a thousand years ago. She threw the throttle to the stops and saw her shadow appear on the tail of the rearmost fighter. Her finger hovered over the targeting button, when a small shadow crossed her dashboard. She was being followed. She jerked the control stick backward into her lap, then threw it hard to the left and jammed it forward. While holding it forward, putting her ship into an over-the-top loop, she wriggled the stick back and forth at random to throw off the opposition. Suddenly, she was nose to nose with the opposing craft, seconds from impact. Years of almost dying took over her motor skills. Her thumb reflexively hit the targeting button and a half-second later she yanked the eject lever. "GOTCHA!" she yelled as her atmosuit-clad body shot out of the cockpit and into space, the targeting tone echoing in her airtight helmet. Auto-avoidance systems took control of both ships and guided them around each other, her recently vacated fighter flying on autopilot back to the PINK MIST. "Witchypoo and Skeeter are down for the count," she laughed, as her suit's thrusters pushed her in the direction of the station, automatic distress notifying the station's rescue crews. "Twinkie is now the lone wolf. Have fun and be careful, gang. See ya on the deck." Skeeter swung her own craft around and flew alongside of Witchypoo, a huge grin plastered to her face. "God-DAMN, Witchypoo! Shit my pants!" Skeeter laughed. "I gotta change my suit when we get back. The comp threw me nosedown and smeared shit all up my back! I'll give you a ride home. Hang on a sec." She switched frequencies, "Purgatory Rescue, this is Pee Emm One Three. Y'all can stand down. That ejection was one of mine. I got her. She's safe." Skeeter eased up to the slowly moving atmosuit and let Witchypoo grab the handholds next to the cockpit. Witchypoo reached into her survival belt, pulling out a hook attached to a short cable, and connected it to a handhold. She would stay this way until they landed back aboard the PINK MIST. Hitchcock's Horrors and Specter's Saints weren't idle, either. They were busy in the powered-armor bay checking out their own new toys. The powered armor was a walking tank, vaguely resembling an upright three meter tall humanoid. As the "driver" approached it, the entire front opened up to admit the person who would then climb into it, settle back, place his head against the headrest and settle a silver headband over his dermal plugs. This would activate the powered armor suit. Once activated, a myriad of weapons and decoys, similar to the fighter craft, would come into play. It was said that two of these monsters could nullify an entire battalion of "throwaways." Twelve of these suits were made available to each mercenary squad. The mercs, already adept at their own suits, had no trouble acclimating to these; there were just more gadgets and gizmos. They were lighter, too. Had bigger guns. Faster response times. The Matsugari suits that Specter's Saints had gotten rid of after only two weeks had been the latest and greatest things on the market. These suits made them look like first generation prototypes. They even smelled nice. Colonel Hitchcock and Major Specter stood side by side watching their troops in close order drills and formation exercises. Although the troopers were fully capable of using the suits, with the new augmentations, they needed to be sure that their people wouldn't kill themselves or someone else. Practice makes perfect. Hitchcock scratched his head then pointed at the suits. "Tell me, Ambrose," he asked, intentionally getting Specter's first name wrong. "You had a chance to go over the specs for these cans? Some pretty hot shit." "Sure have, No Nose," Specter replied with equal cool. He was referring to Hitchcock's rebuilt proboscis; shot off during an engagement with the Mongans. "The commander wasn't lying when she said these were better than Matsugari's armor. Cellular regenerating armor? Takes a low-grade plasma shot and is whole again in less than three seconds? That feature alone is worth getting rid of the ones we just bought." "I wanna see how they perform in non-atmo null-grav conditions. Looks great on the comp-screen, but if one of my people gets hurt because of an 'experimental fuckup,' the captain's gonna have a lot to explain." Charleen was putting all of her recruiting gear back in her bag, in preparation for returning to the ship, when a shadow loomed over the table. Her nostrils were assaulted by a very obnoxiously sweet, almost overpowering, scent. She crinkled her nose distastefully as she looked up, then promptly burst out laughing. The figure before her was male, as evidenced by the outline of the tubular appendage hidden inside his skin-tight pink sequined leotard. Charleen craned her neck to look at his matching polished leather high-heeled bootlets. His left arm was crooked at the elbow, a fluorescent pink handbag dangling from it. Pink earrings reflected the overhead lights. Curiously, he wore glasses, also framed in pink. His immaculately manicured fingernails sported...pink nail polish. His pink hair needed a touch up, though, as his brown roots were starting to show. His toothy grin showed a row of perfectly even sparkling white teeth. "I'm sooooo sorry I'm late, General," he spoke, "Traffic was a bitch. I didn't even have time to do my hair!" Charleen liked this guy instantly. "I'm a commander," she smiled. "Can I help you...uh...sir? Ma'am?" "Just 'Jesse' will be fine, Admiral," he replied, his grin infectious. "I hear you're looking for a laundress. Have ya found one?" "No, as a matter of fact. It seems that no one wants to fold clothes all day." "General, you are sooooo in luck!" he chuckled. "My family's been laundering clothes since before the Fourth World War! We've washed, waxed, grunched, crunched, folded, spindled, and mutilated the FINEST of clothing of some the FINEST of people in the known universe! Remember President Shalheiser?" "The woman who started the Alliance? Everyone knows her. Don't tell me your family worked for her?" "Tsk tsk! No, Admiral!" he giggled, "My great-great-great-great granddaddy worked for her maid's cook!" Charleen wiped a tear from her eye. Not many people made her laugh until she cried. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 05 Two days' easy cruising put the PINK MIST back in Alliance territory. They had assumed a lazy orbit around a small planet which had an unbreathable atmosphere comprised mainly of carbon dioxide along with a few trace elements. Nasty and perfect. The crew spent the days teaching as well as learning the complex systems of the Dreadnaught. Just before the docking clamps had released the PINK MIST from Purgatory, Alice's avatar made one more unimpeded cyber-run. She wasn't even detected. Fifty one milliseconds. The fighters, now up to their full complement of fifty, had all been modified by the techbots and the contractors while at the station. Now, they dodged and darted around the huge ship like fireflies in simulated attack games. They worked with the gunnery crews, acting as targets and simulating assaults on the Dreadnaught; similar to the Lone Wolf games they had played around Purgatory. Hitchcock's Horrors and Specter's Saints used the lower levels of the ship to practice close quarter assault tactics, along with speed drills...they ran headlong down corridors and did their best not slam into the walls at the far end. Commanded by a gruff, lanky former Stellar Marine named Don Rathberger, the "Meat Squad," those whom Charleen had termed, "throwaways," joined in these games to hone their skills and tactics: squad light assaults, room clearing, and close quarters battle. Occasionally, one would purposely step in front of a powered suit as it thundered down the corridor, the PS driver instructed to avoid them at all costs rather than run over them, as normally would be done on the field of battle. Quillan stood with hands on hips as she watched the three groups working to become a cohesive unit. "SPECTER! HITCHCOCK! RATHBERGER!" she yelled, unable to pick them out of the melee. "FRONT AND CENTER!" A powered suit dropped the meat body in its grasp, turned and ran toward the captain, pursued closely by a fully geared combat soldier. From the other end of the hallway, two huge thuds were heard as a pair of armored suits were roughly shoved out of the way so a third could get past and run to the captain, as well. Once clear of the mayhem surrounding them, the faceplates on the huge powered armor suits went up, revealing the faces of the two mercenary commanders. Don took off his face-protected helmet. "Well, guys?" she asked. "How are drills coming along?" Rathberger rolled a sore shoulder and sniffed a small trickle of blood beneath his nose. He'd been thrown into a wall. "Overall, they're looking pretty damn good, Cap'n," he said. "Always have the assholes and the 'needs improvement' crowd, but I'd take 'em all into a fight." He spat a glob of blood on the deck, frowning as a tooth was seen in the puddle. He bent to pick it up, stuffed it in a pocket. "I'll take care of this later." "You'll take care of it now," Quillan replied coolly, hiking a thumb over her shoulder at the elevator. He sighed and headed off to the medical bay. "We're not in combat." Watching him go, Specter remarked, "You've got to admire his commitment, Captain." "Indeed, I do," she turned to look up at the two suited warriors. "But, during practice runs, we can afford a bit of leeway. How are your troopers doing in these things?" Hitchcock let out a belly laugh. "Captain," he said, humor in his voice, "some of mine don't want to get out of them. After some of the pure shitsuits we've been in, these are four room apt-cubes. They've taken to them and can hold up against the hottest suit on the market...hands down. The Horrors can kick ass in anything that moves." "While I don't share his aptitude for embellishment, Captain," said Specter, "I will also concur that my troops are perfectly capable in these suits." "Great!" Quillan smiled, narrowing her eyes. "Ever done TMD's in a never-tested suit?" The Thirty Mile Drop, or TMD, was designed to minimize shuttle craft usage, as well as get a powered soldier onto a planet as quickly as possible. In combat scenarios, the dropship would assume a low orbit, moving as rapidly as possible around a planet in order to be harder to hit with missiles or lasers. The suits would then fire their own thrusters to achieve the proper trajectory for entry into a breathable atmosphere and join up with squadmates. Since there was almost no oxygen present on this planet, the suits would fall virtually straight down. Each suit's own computer would control descent rate, tactical formation and, most importantly, landing procedures. Quillan sat in her captain's chair, Alice beside her, both staring at the large viewscreen which dominated the front wall. The screen displayed several views around the PINK MIST, in one corner showing the powered armor bay, it's huge door open to space. Six rows of four columns of the powered suits were spaced equidistant in the center of the bay. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "Lifesigns are being monitored closely. If an abort is called for any reason, you will have exactly one second before your suits lock and emergency thrusters will bring you back up to the ship. "If there is anyone who does not wish to take part in this exercise, simply break formation and move back against an interior bulkhead. Remember, these suits are experimental and you don't get paid if you're dead. There will be zero repercussions if you decide against this exercise. "I will give you sixty seconds to determine if you want to trust your life to an experiment. The clock begins now." The suits all stood immobile in the bay. Fifteen seconds. A figure from Hitchcock's Horrors stepped out of line, turned to the camera, saluted smartly, and strode to stand next to the wall. Thirty seconds. None moved. Forty five seconds. Two suits from Specter's Saints stepped out, saluted, and joined the one from Hitchcock's Horrors. Sixty seconds. "Your time has expired. Lieutenant Mansberg is now your drop officer." She sat back as Muffin's bass rumble sounded around the bridge. "Chase craft, report when ready." "Chase craft, ready," came the acknowledgment from the four fighter craft who would watch the powered armor fall to the ground, thirty miles below. "Central Comm, report when ready." "Central Comm is ready, Drop Officer." Muffin's deep voice responded from the communication station, Amanda absorbed in monitoring all frequencies at once. "Warriors, report when ready." "Horrors ready." "Saints ready." "All stations report as ready. Attention all PM flights, clear the area around the drop bay. Warriors, stand in the door." Charleen held her breath as she stood next to Amanda, her eyes riveted on the screen, watching the suits move to the very brink of nothingness. "Ready drop in five...four...three...two...one...drop...drop...drop." At the command, the first suits in line simply stepped off the edge and were instantly gone as gravity took over, the next row of suits stepping forward to take their places at the edge. One by one, the rows dwindled to zero. Muffin turned in his seat to face Quillan. "All warriors are away, ma'am," he reported. The maneuvering jets of the powered armor turned them to a head-down position so the drivers were better able to gauge the planet below and make minor course adjustments of their own, overriding the computer's suggested trajectory. At this altitude without the aid of visual enhancements, all they could make out were a few seas and oceans delineated by land. As they dropped and the terrain grew clearer, they could make out large boulders and mountains. A probe sent ahead of them by two minutes marked their landing zone and fed a hazy gray video to the suits of the surrounding area. A decent spot to land; at least none of the rocks were larger than a one-man fighter. Hitchcock and Specter flipped switches in their suits to activate blinking marker lights, and ordered their respective squads to close formation, queuing on the light. Blips on their heads-up displays showed the squads reacting accordingly. "Horrors, hard ground in two minutes. Saints, hard ground in two minutes, thirty seconds. Get set," said Muffin. The suits turned upright so they could land on their feet. Nose down as they followed the suits, the chase craft flipped side ways to fly tight spirals around them. "PM chase flight," came Skittle's voice, the flight leader, "visibility's getting tight. Glue your eyes to your sensors and open the flight path by five miles. Everyone needs room on this one." The massive suit's power units were small specialized fusion generators, able to consume most gases and convert the matter into exhaust. In this case, the intakes sucked up the carbon dioxide atmosphere, stripped off the carbon molecules and converted the flammable oxygen molecules into fuel. A double benefit, actually, as the some of the oxygen was pumped into the air supply holding tanks, replacing that used by the warriors. The fuel was ignited, and the powered armor descended on columns of fire. The scene would have been quite spectacular and frightening if anyone was around to see it. The excess carbon matter could either be shunted into a small container for later processing by the ship overhead, or in this case, simply vented, leaving a fine gray trail of particles. Massive thumps and reverberations as the suits hit the ground, the thrusters shutting off as soon as they sensed the relief of weight. "Horrors, report," ordered Hitchcock tersely, turning to look around the gloomy hazy area. Other suits landed near him and reports from his unit indicated that all had made it safely. "Saints, report," came Specter's voice. He too looked around, his radar screen indicating that Hitchcock's Horrors were a half mile distant. Not shabby for dropping from a height of thirty miles. He checked the clock and saw that the entire drop had taken just under thirteen minutes. Aboard PINK MIST, Hitchcock's, then Specter's voices emanated from a small brown-eyed, brown-haired girl saying that all suits were on the ground, drivers were safe, and the Thirty Mile Drop could be considered a success. While on the planet, the warriors were given a few extra hours to practice maneuvers and mock battles. Any chance to test suits and abilities. MESSAGE BEGINS BREAK BREAK BREAK BEGIN ENCRYPT PROTOCOL BETA 2 CHECK SECURE TO: CAPTAIN, PINK MIST FROM: MILCOM ACTUAL You told us two (2) weeks and it's been 12 days. Ready? Two items are in your sector. Please respond with ready status as soon as possible. CLEAR CLEAR CLEAR MESSAGE ENDS MESSAGE BEGIN ALL CHANNELS Send it any time you're ready, hotshot. Kisses. MESSAGE ENDS FLASHPOINT BREAK BREAK BREAK BEGIN ENCRYPT PROTOCOL THETA 1 CHECK SECURE TO: CAPTAIN, PINK MIST FROM: MILCOM ACTUAL Captain Margoles, this mission is classed as TARGETS OF OPPORTUNITY. Medium priority. Extremely High Risk. There are two Mongan Pitbull Class Carriers near you. Carrier number one codenamed "Emperor Moth." Carrier number two codenamed "Gypsy Moth." Total destruction of both would be ideal. Current heading is toward Katham system at just under light speed. It would be best not to let them get within strike range of Katham VIII. They'll arrive at max range in 48 hours. Coordinates to follow. No prisoners are expected. FLASHPOINT CLEAR CLEAR CLEAR MESSAGE ENDS Holy shit. Quillen's mind started working as she read the message. The typical Mongan Pitbull Class carried between forty and fifty fighters. And there were TWO of them? PINK MIST had an even fifty. The Mongan fighters could outmaneuver any of her own fighters, able to reverse course in the blink of an eye. The armament was light, but Mongans attacked in force and could shred a PM Squadron fighter if given the chance. Of course, we have the advantage of the powered armor, but those are primarily used for ship boarding and ground assault. Quillan hadn't been trained in close fighter combat or ground tactics. Her expertise was support; piloting and commanding the huge Dreadnaughts. Well, we'll just have to rely on some people with those kinds of experiences. "Captain," said Charleen succinctly, "you're outta your fucking mind...Ma'am." Specter and Hitchcock deadpanned each other, then returned their gazes to Quillan. "For a bunch of pirates, you certainly have no sense of adventure," Quillan said, grinning as she glanced around the room at those assembled. They had bunched into the War Chamber, that small room reserved for the most private of conversations. Alice stood with her hands loosely behind her back next to Quillan. Charleen was seated with Amanda behind her, hands resting on the XO's shoulders. Krystine and Michelle, callsign Twinkie, leaned against the far wall looking like twins; their arms folded the same way, standing on their left feet with the right leg bent in front, foot resting on its toes. Michelle had visited the medical bay earlier to have her teeth filed to points like her flight leader's. Major Specter voiced what almost everyone was thinking. "Captain," he began, clipped Martian accent very evident. "While we DID, in fact, sign on as pirates, we did not sign on for suicide runs. They are bigger, stronger, and faster than we are. Perhaps if we had three or four dozen powered suits instead of the two dozen we have..." Hitchcock cut him off. "What Major Potato is saying, ma'am, is that we can do it with the proper support," the last two words said with a glare at Specter. "Once we get aboard those ships, we'll have null perspiration emptying them out. The trick is getting there." Colonel Hitchcock's voice sounded from directly behind Charleen. "The trick is getting there." Charleen leaned her head back to look up at Amanda with a grin, reaching to squeeze her hand reassuringly. Silent until now, Muffin spoke up, his voice a deep basso rumble, reminding some of an active volcano. "We have better than state-of-the-art firepower. You people are acting like you're doing it all yourselves. We're supposed to be a fucking team, here; need ta start actin' like it. I guarantee that my guns can shoot the lint off your suits without leaving a mark. I ain't exactly been sitting on my ass the past two weeks. I've been reading and tweaking these things. Take a piece of chalk with you and mark where you want me to punch a hole." He winked at the captain. Quillan smiled and winked back at him. "I have the basics for a plan of attack. I'll outline it and then we can laser out the details." She drew a circle with her finger in the air over the table, a holographic three dimensional tactical bubblemap forming, and voiced her idea. Lightbulbs started coming on in their heads and everyone made suggestions to fine tune the assault. This was going to be tough. Very tough. If they pulled it off, though, they would all be very wealthy indeed. After their initial lovemaking, Alice exploring and pleasing Quillan until the latter could barely breathe, the pair had talked at length about Alice's feelings for Quillan. Quillan had admitted that she felt a certain fondness for the cyborg, but wasn't to the "love" stage quite yet. Alice, still getting used to her sentience, had reacted as most any smitten person would: a combination of disappointment mixed with the desire to be close to the object of her affection along with a certain hopefulness. All of the data she had collected from Tri-D movies, romance databases and the Interstellar Network suggested that she wait, keep acting as she normally would, and make damn sure to keep her private life separate from her professional life. For most people, the last part would take a conscious effort of will. Over time, the separation of these "lives" would become second-nature. Alice had the benefit of having a computer for a brain; she could turn her professionalism on and off as easily as flipping a light switch. The hard part was figuring out WHEN to do it. The more interaction she had with Quillan and several others with this ability, the more she was able to distinguish between the two. In days of yore, the watch commander of a ship never left the bridge except in extreme circumstances or unless relieved by the replacement watch commander. With the computer closely monitoring things, and since this wasn't the military, more leeway was given. Charleen, the watch commander, and Amanda walked hand in hand down the wide hallway in the direction of the ship's laundry, Amanda happily relating a tale of winning the Earth-Actual Intercontinental Communications Ribbon by precisely and properly categorizing, listing, and prioritizing six thousand, eight hundred and ninety one vocal signals which had been transmitted simultaneously. To an ordinary person, even to pick out two or three would have been a daunting task. She had correctly identified almost seven thousand individual voices and the words they had spoken. At the same time. Amanda had come a long way since her rescue from Purgatory's Cemetery. She was still a little skittish around most of the crew, but not quite as shy, especially if Charleen or Muffin were with her. A head topped with purple hair suddenly appeared in her path as Jesse leaned out the door of the laundry room. Startled, Amanda yelped and scampered behind Charleen to huddle as close as she could get and bury her face in the XO's back. "Hi, Admiral!" Jesse greeted. "I heard you coming...um..." He noted the frightened Amanda peeking from behind the commander and stepped into the hall, straightening and perching a pair of purple flower-framed glasses on his nose. Now dressed completely in a shiny purple lame' jumpsuit with matching purple kneeboots, Jesse smiled toothily at Amanda who stared back, wide-eyed, not knowing what to make of him. "Oh, you are the ca-YUTEST little thing! I didn't mean to scare you with my mean, old, nasty self! I just finished laundering, pressing, and..." He giggled, looking back and forth between the women as he spoke. "...altering the new uniforms. That big, tall, huge man was THE hardest to fit! I had to create a whole new...area, if you know what I mean, in the crotchal region to accommodate his rather large..." Jesse's eyes shot up and down the empty corridor and he leaned in conspiratorially to stage whisper, "...cock. That man is sooooo big! I wouldn't mind getting him alone and doing a little bit of closer examination, if you get my drift. Commander, I have your uniforms all ready for you to put your massive tits into and for this ca-YUTE little thing to put her ca-YUTE little self into. If you two would care to come inside and try them on? I don't think you'll have aaaannnny problems at all." He sauntered back into the laundry room without waiting for a reply, his butt swinging like a pendulum. Charleen wondered if he'd taken a breath during that whole monologue. In Quillan's quarters, soft sighs were coming from Alice. Just as she had explored Quillan's body the other day, so Quillan was exploring hers. Alice lay on her back on the bed, head on a soft pillow, yellow hair spilled around her like a silken halo. Her arms were slack and she fought the urge to rub Quillan's back or fondle her lover's breasts. She had been instructed to just lie still and experience the pleasure. Quillan, situated on her knees on the bed next to Alice and supported by one arm, planted small tender kisses all over Alice's face; taking her time and care to cover every inch of the beautiful face and memorize every detail and nuance of flavor and scent of the incredible woman. Her free hand moved over the voluptuous totally nude body as gently as a feather on the breeze, never making full contact, barely skimming. She gently kissed Alice's full lips, parting her own slightly, receiving a parting of Alice's lips, and slowly moved her tongue inside that perfect mouth to find the flesh within and lightly touch tip to tip. The kiss grew in intensity, tongues pressing closer together, tighter. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 05 Unconsciously, Alice wrapped her arms around Quillan's neck, pressing her lips hard against her lover's, her love for the redhead growing by the moment. Quillan continued with the kiss, Alice's breath on her cheek warm and soft. Her hand found its way down to Alice's smooth hairless mound. She lay her hand flat over it, cupping the mons pubis and spreading the lips slightly with her fingers, feeling the heat being generated from the center. Alice, never having felt cool air on her clitoris, moaned into Quillan's mouth and hugged her tighter, her tongue twisting and turning and dancing as it mingled with Quillan's. Quillan tenderly broke the kiss and began licking her way down Alice's chest, pausing to lick, kiss and momentarily suck on the erect nipples. She motioned for Alice to bend her knees, kissing the creases at her hips, the scent from the woman/cyborg wafting to her nostrils, working in ever-smaller circles as she licked toward the center of her desire. Fully spreading Alice's lips, she noted that Alice's clitoris was slightly thicker and longer than average. She breathed warm air on the clit and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from Alice. She opened her mouth wide and placed it over Alice's clit, with the nub in the very center. She wiggled her head from side to side in order to snug it completely in the slot, an airtight seal. Keeping her tongue carefully away from the tender morsel, she sucked hard, her cheeks bending inward as a vacuum was created. Once she had sucked out as much air as she could, she flattened her tongue and draped it across the swollen clit. Alice involuntarily bucked her hips at the sensations presented by the warm mouth and tongue. Her hands began stroking Quillan's short red hair as her knees spread wide apart in counter to her feet which were locked together at the ankles and resting on Quillan's back. Her eyes were open, staring at a fixed spot on the ceiling, her breath coming in short gasps. Quillan's lips closed on the tender clit and she began humming, the vibrations being absorbed by it. She carefully and slowly pushed in a finger, knowing Alice had never had anything inserted and not wanting to hurt her. Once her finger was inside, she slid it back and forth gently, a slow fingerfuck. "Ka...Ka..." gulped Alice, her eyes unfocusing; she closed them tightly. "Ka...will...an...my...w...w...world...is...UNGH!!!!" Alice's back arched sharply, her ass coming off the bed, fingers gripping Quillan's hair tightly as the first orgasm slammed into her with the force of an exploding star. She sucked her lower into her mouth and bit down hard enough to draw blood. She didn't care. This was the most exquisite feeling she had ever encountered. Quillan continued slowly pumping her finger and licking Alice's clit, pausing to kiss the surrounding area as she eased the beautiful cyborg through her orgasm. Suddenly, the room became completely dark as the lights went out. The small background hiss of the air handling unit ceased. Alice's body went limp and collapsed back onto the bed with a soft thump. "Uh-oh," Quillan said to the total darkness. She slid backward off the bed and began crawling on hands and knees toward the spot she had left her clothes. Feeling around, she found a boot and knew she was headed in the right direction. The room lights flickered several times and came back up allowing her to find her jumpsuit and pull it on as she looked at Alice's inert form on the bed. The airflow from the ventilation shaft overhead started its gentle hiss again. The communications panel next to the bed started bleeping for attention. Quillan dashed to it and opened the comm channel. "This is the captain," she said, her eyes glued to Alice. At least the cyborg was breathing on her own. "Captain, this is the XO," came Charleen's voice. "That power outage was caused by an auto-reboot of the entire system. The comp-geeks are having a closer look and will send regular reports." Quillan blanched. "XO, tell the comp-geeks that I know precisely where the problem lies and to leave the matter alone. They are NOT to proceed any further in their investigations. Am I being perfectly clear? Threaten to withhold their pay if they keep playing around. That should do the trick. The problem's in a very sensitive area of Alice's programming and the ONLY one who will be allowed to correct it is Alice, herself. Shiny?" Long pause, then a single, humored "heh," from Charleen followed by a clearing of her throat. "I understand, Captain," the XO replied officiously. "I'll take care of it." Charleen signed off. Quillan, her jumpsuit zipped only up to her navel, moved to sit on the edge of the bed. She laid two fingers along Alice's carotid artery and was rewarded with the feel of a strong pulse. She moved her hand to tenderly stroke the flawless face, admiring the graceful lines. Alice took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She stretched languidly, as if she had just woken up from a nap. Alice giggled. "Oops." During their planning session, Alice had pulled up and displayed the schematics and specifications for the Mongan Pitbull Class along with the strengths and weaknesses, crew capacities, and various other data gleaned or outright stolen from various Alliance databases. She was beginning to like this pirate stuff. Alice bounced a signal around the galaxy to a trio of sensor satellites which would detect the pair of Mongan carriers and provide an exact location. She couldn't access the satellites directly as the Mongans had communications equipment that was able to detect from which direction a signal was emanating. PINK MIST wanted as much surprise as possible. She locked the signal and set up a simple program to continue monitoring. As the ships passed out of detection range of one satellite, detection was sent to the next logical sensor. With three satellites tracking the Mongans at all times, there was little chance of the pair disappearing. "All stations, report your ready status, please," Quillan ordered casually. The viewscreen displayed an extreme long-range shot at full magnification of the carriers. Over half a million miles distant and well out of sensor range, they were mere dots, their images virtually blending together. The left side of the screen displayed a column listing all departments and stations on the PINK MIST. One by one, a green dot appeared beside the station to denote that the station was ready for combat. The last to turn green was the ship's laundry. Jesse's "armament" was a handheld clothes-press. "All hands," Quillan smiled, "the ship is ready. We're about to be filthy rich. Alice, sound battle station alert, please." A raucous clanging filled the air around them for fifteen seconds, then all was silent once again. "Mister Jeffers, match target speed and fold. You have your co-ordinates and position." "Aye, captain," Jeffers replied professionally, "target speed locked. Folding." The PINK MIST blinked into existence ten miles above and to the rear of the Mongan carrier which had been designated as "Gypsy Moth." Amanda activated powerful frequency jamming equipment to prevent the carriers from calling for assistance while still allowing their own communication equipment to function. Muffin blipped his targeting controls and fired the forward plasma arrays, smiling grimly as he saw multiple forward hammerpoint pulse lasers join in. The beams started at the rear thrusters of the huge carrier and worked their way forward, flaying open the carrier like a gutted fish. Interior explosions started winking soundlessly as bulkheads failed and the interior was opened to space. Nothing had escaped alive. Two small inert torpedoes shot forth to embed themselves in the largest portions of the halves. These contained marker beacons to direct the PINK MIST for possible recovery later. As the forward artillery was opening up the "Gypsy Moth" carrier, every one of the fighters was erupting from the open bays and charging toward the "Emporer Moth," under cover of laser and small plasma fire from the PINK MIST. Most firing points were under direct control by human hands, a few directed by Alice. Caught completely by surprise, as was the intention, vital seconds were lost by the Mongans as their fighter pilots rushed to their own fighters. The Mongan carrier's flaws in launch operations, as well as being able to launch only four fighters at a time from the front, lost them even more precious time. Ensign Jeffers sideslipped the massive dreadnaught and took position above and behind the carrier, as he had done with the previous carrier. Muffin targeted the rear thrusters of the immense craft, unleashing multiple plasma beams and disabling them in under ten seconds. Eight more inert torpedoes, these trailing towing cables as thick as Muffin's waist, blasted forth and spread out to slam into the rear of the carrier at equidistant points. The PINK MIST fired her reverse thrusters to slow both ships at the same time. "Powered suits and Meat Squad, go. Lizards, go," ordered Quillan. The PINK MIST's forward pulse lasers were blasting the Mongan fighters almost as soon as they exited the carrier bay. Although highly maneuverable, the fighter's near-lightspeed inertia had to be overcome and they still needed to completely turn around to face their targets. More time gone. Out of the fifty Mongan fighters inside the carrier, seventeen met their untimely demise at the hand of the human gunners. Several Mongan fighters had been destroyed directly in front of the launch bay. In the absence of gravity or air friction, some of the pieces seemed to hang immobile before the opening. A fighter tried to bull its way through the detritus, only to be shredded and add itself to the wreckage. Despite the devastation, Mongan fighters poured forth. The battle was joined. The powered-armor suits had been affixed with quick-release pulleys and were using their own thrusters at full burn to travel the ten-mile long cables. Clipped to their "belts" were six atmo-suited warriors who were loaded, geared, and keeping their eyes peeled for encroaching fighters. Directly behind them, sprinting along the cables as their claws held them firmly, were the six-legged lizards. The lizards needed no air, no food, no water, drawing their power from whatever electrical signals happened to be in the vicinity. Situated between the PINK MIST and the Mongan carrier, laser and plasma fire all around, the electrical emanations were intense. Voices, male and female, came from the speakers as the PINK MIST monitored every channel. Only the fighters could hear the other fighters and, of course, the PINK MIST. Likewise, the armored warriors and powered suits. This prevented confusion. On board the PINK MIST, it was a cacophony of sound. The only person Quillan was listening to was Amanda, as the Parrot separated, categorized, and prioritized the chatter...in the voices of the speakers. "Horrors, twenty seconds to landing." "Twinkie! Ya got five after ya! Swing left ten degrees!" "Saints on deck. Plasma cannon deployed and firing." "Squad two, set charges here." "Open that door!" "FIRE IN THE HOLE!" As soon as they'd landed on the exterior of the carrier, the powered-armor troops fanned out in squads, pausing only long enough for the Meat Squad to make sure their magnetic boots were secure against the hull and detach themselves. Several suits had anchored firmly to the ship and were providing more cover fire for those still arriving. Two members of the Meat Squad moved to a large door and surrounded it with burncord, designed to breach heavy metal. A harsh light came from the area and the door neatly popped off, shot into space by the internal pressure of the ship. Five seconds later, a powered armor warrior dropped an oxygen enriched high explosive into the opening, waited for it to detonate, then dropped in himself. The other suits began dropping through the hull to the interior, followed swiftly by the lizards, then the Meat Squad. "Saints, sweep left by twos. Anything moves, make sure it doesn't move any more." "Horrors, right by twos. Everything dies. Get 'em, gang." "Magic, bring your flight...shit...TAKE THAT, FUCKER! ...bring your flight to the starboard side of this bastard. Yeah, that's it. There's one hiding behind that gun emplacement. Dig him out." "Meat Squad, clear for entry." "Meat Squad's in. Sealing the hole." "Hole sealed. Integrity's tight. Take down some bulkheads and let's get some pressure in here." "Holy hell! Did you see that? Those lizards are unstoppable!" "Nice little puppies, ain't they?" "All flights, this is Witchiepoo. Check your sectors and gimme a report. I think we got 'em all." "Captain," said Amanda in her own voice, "All flights report losses. We lost eight. The Mongans lost forty-nine. One intact fighter is trying to blast its way out of their launch bay." "Attention, boarding crews," Quillan announced, "There's one fighter still in the launch bay. Do your best to capture it intact. If not feasible, kill it. Break. PM Flight Lead, continue security patrols in this airspace." "Flight Lead, copy. Razor, take your formation and hover right over that goddamn bay. That rat-bastard shows you a piece, blow to him to Earth-Actual," Krystine/Witchiepoo ordered. "All others, scan for hidden gun emplacements and take 'em out if you get the chance." "Affirmative, Captain," replied Hitchcock, "Specter, how close are you to that bay?" "Charlie team should be at the back door," voiced Specter, then continued, obviously speaking to the team in question, "Charlie team, this is Saint Actual, did you copy the fighter?" "Saint Actual, this is Charlie One," came a cool female voice, "Copy that. Break. Charlie Two and Four, form on me. Three has the rear guard." "Is this the door?" "Looks like it. Hold here. Map check...this is it. By the numbers. FIRE!" Muffled explosions came through the speakers as the power-armored warriors unleashed a flurry of powerful short-range plasma bursts on the offending bulkhead door. Quillan cringed. If the sound of the shots came through the sound-dampened speakers, standing there must have been deafening. "CHECK LEFT! CHECK LEFT! TURRET! TURR--!" The sound of intense automatic plasma fire was undercut by standard hypervelocity machinegun chatter. "Charlie Two's down. Charlie One to Meat Squad Lead, can you redirect a few lizards to my location?" "Meat Squad Lead here, they'll be with you in thirty seconds. Stand clear of the door. They're highballing it." "JESUS-JACK-JUMPING-CHRIST those things are fast!" "Kick it, guys! He's almost out!" A very intense, low, slow-speaking female voice sounded. "Three-hundred-four meters to target. Stand by." A single hypervelocity gunshot sounded. "Target neutralized..." "Helluva shot, Three," chuckled Charlie One. "Launch bay secure." "PINK MIST, this is Meat Squad Lead," came the gruff voice of Don Rathberger. "The bridge is secure." "Engineering is secure." "Ship's stores are secure." "Mainframe is secure." "Armory secure." Grins were appearing on faces throughout the PINK MIST as each section of the carrier was reported as being secure. "Captain Quillan," said Alice, at long last, grinning ear to ear, "scans of the ship show only our personnel on board." "Captain," Rathberger's voice was heard once more, his relief evident, "These controls ain't in English...anyone read Mongan?" Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 06 AUTHOR'S NOTE: My readers are so cool. Thanks to all who helped me on a few points (sentences which gave me trouble, clearing up those pesky confusing issues, ideas for tactics, etc). Thanks to Literotica for letting me entertain people, and thanks to all the people who provide feedback, giving me the impetus to continue writing. As long as there exist those to enjoy my stories, I'll keep writing for a long time. I love you all. ---------------------------------------- The exterior of the "Emporer Moth," MON-COFFLA the official name of the carrier, was basically intact. Her guns had been destroyed, and a hole large enough to admit the powered armor had been opened and then sealed, but hull integrity was at one hundred percent. After taking the ship, Amanda and Charleen had been transferred via the only working shuttle on the PINK MIST: Quillan's repaired cargo craft, the HAWK'S WING. Amanda, never having seen or heard the Mongan language, meandered onto the bridge of the vessel, glanced at the strange symbols arrayed around the room and began muttering to herself in fluent Mongan. Charleen had handed her a pad of sticky paper and requested that she label the controls in English. Less than fifteen minutes later, the beautiful brown-eyed, brown-haired little Parrot had festooned the bridge with paper bearing her elegant handwriting, then began wandering the decks of the ship, slapping little tags anywhere she saw Mongan writing. The PINK MIST had swiveled the tow cables to put the MON-COFFLA at her back and began towing it in the direction of the two halves of the MON-AMALJA, the carrier they had fileted during the ambush. Unable to fold space while towing the carrier, it took the better part of a week to catch up to the pieces. Due to the fact that there was no air friction to slow or stop the MON-AMALJA, the wreckage had continued more or less in a straight line under its own momentum. The trajectories of both pieces had been affected by several gravity wells, but remained in the same general vicinity of one another. During this time, the techbots and heavy repairbots had been ferried to the carrier in order to make it ready for habitation by the humans. Using the scraps of metal already onboard the PINK MIST, it was a simple matter to patch the carrier's hull and repair the internal damage wrought by the powered warriors and Meat Squad. The orange bodies of the Mongans were unceremoniously thrown into an airlock and flushed into space. ---------------------------------------- NO ENCRYPTION ENABLED OPEN MESSAGE To: UNIDENTIFIED SHIP'S CAPTAIN KLAMATH SYSTEM From: CHIEF OF STATION, COLONY GELAN, KATHAM VIII Thank you for the intervention. While you were engaged, we were able to obtain some details of your ship. As we don't know which frequencies you monitor, we are transmitting on all frequencies and not revealing details about you. You know who you are and what we are speaking of. Our meager facilities are at your disposal. We do possess certain stealth capabilities and can grant you sanctuary if necessary. Thank you again. Arliss Ramaza END MESSAGE BEGIN ENCRYPT PROTOCOL THETA 1 CHECK SECURE -- UNABLE DEFAULT ENCRYPT ALPHA 4 CHECK SECURE TO: ARLISS RAMAZA FROM: CAPTAIN, PINK MIST Thank you for your offer. Got any pink paint? We need a few touch ups. END MESSAGE ---------------------------------------- The powered armor suits, occupying two bays, had been moved into a single bay to allow the cut-up, reprocessed pieces to be stowed. One of the four main thrusters and several smaller maneuvering thrusters were found to be still intact, as were most of the defensive guns, these were cannibalized and transferred to the launch bay of the MON-COFFLA. One can only surmise why there was an armory aboard that ship, as there were no defending soldiers to use the large quantity of hand held energy weapons. Perhaps they had been awaiting the arrival of a ground-attack force. Since the transmissions were jammed, there was no chance of either of the two behemoths calling for assistance. Long range scans in the Klamath system showed nothing out of the ordinary. Still, Quillan didn't want to take the chance that a Mongan recon frigate would come looking for them, so they set course for the Tau-Ceti system, deep within Alliance territory. While they were underway, heavy repairbots and techbots crawled all over the captured carrier, getting it operational once more. By the time they were safely in orbit around the star, the carrier's four main and all maneuvering thrusters were at full capacity. It was voted on and unanimously decided that the bulk of Alice's programming be copied and infused into the MON-COFFLA, Alice being one of the biggest proponents of the action. "It would be nice to talk to one of my own kind," she remarked. Computer technology had changed drastically in the almost nine hundred years since the Electronic Numerical Integrator And Computer, ENIAC, had calculated missile trajectories in the mid-twentieth century. First, there were tubes and wires occupying an entire warehouse-sized building, the programmers and support personnel shuttling back and forth on roller skates. With the advent of the transistor, the computer was made smaller as solid-state circuitry took over and dominated the electronics industry until Surface-Mount Technology was made available some fifteen years later. SMT was the mainstay until the latter half of the twenty second century when Bubble-chips were invented. After Bubble-chips, Molecular-Storage was discovered, quite by accident. Although hideously expensive, some form of the freely available Molecular-Storage Technology was used in almost every application in existence today, by the Alliance as well as other races. Alice's avatar breezed into the MON-COFFLA's mainframe, ripped out its operating system by the virtual roots and squirt-transmitted the entire package to MilCom on Earth-Actual in keeping with their agreement. After ensuring that all was normal and could hold all the information she was about to dump into the carrier's computer, she stripped her own "personality" from the programming, made a few changes to the self-awareness portion, and began the upload. Three days, thirteen hours, and seven minutes later, a bouncing baby computer named Salli was born. Salli quickly formed her own neural pathways and personality, much to the chagrin and slight annoyance of Charleen. Techbots, medibots, and heavy repairbots were built using some of the excess materials on board the PINK MIST, and ferried to the MON-COFFLA, now under the temporary control of Salli. "Attention, all hands," Alice's purring voice echoed through the PINK MIST and over to the MON-COFFLA. "A formal promotion ceremony will be held in the mess hall at 1900 hours. You are required to attend. If you are late or do not attend, you will be docked one day's pay. Thank you." Quillan, seated at the desk in the captain's cabin, whipped her head around so fast that she almost broke her neck. "Alice," she asked incredulously, "are you serious? That's a great way to make enemies, you know...and I'm the one they'll blame." Alice moved over to Quillan in the captain's quarters, sliding her arms around the redhead's waist and kissing her lightly on the forehead. "You wanted them all there tonight, right? What better way to get to a mercenary than through his cred-chip? You taught me that. Was I wrong to say it?" Her bright green eyes fixed Quillan; that ever-present half-grin. "Just..." Quillan shivered as Alice bent to softly kiss her neck. "Just...don't...do...it too..." She craned her neck, letting Alice's lips travel where they wanted. "...often...else morale...will..." She wasn't able to finish the sentence. She was putty. Alice nudged Quillan from her seat and turned her around, nuzzling and kissing her neck some more. She ran her hands down Quillan's back to her butt, massaging the round cheeks, giving the occasional squeeze through the fabric of her uniform. Quillan leaned her head back and closed her eyes as Alice kissed and licked her throat and the sides of her neck. One hand went to Quillan's zipper, slowly drawing it down with an almost inaudible, "zzzzzzz." Alice placed a hand on either of Quillan's shoulders and pulled the jumpsuit down, revealing the smooth, creamy white skin, as she sank to her knees before the entranced captain. She helped Quillan entirely shed the jumpsuit while planting kisses around Quillan's trimmed mound. The blonde beauty expertly hooked an arm behind one of Quillan's knees and in one smooth motion slid the bent knee up her arm to settle it on her shoulder. She inserted her tongue into the red-covered slit, unerringly finding the tender nub and lightly caressing it. One hand inserted two fingers into Quillan's slickness, the other clutched a buttcheek and snaked the middle finger to her pucker to lightly tickle it, nudging in closer and closer until it slipped inside. Quillan's hands alternately clutched and smoothed the silky golden hair as she was engrossed in the feelings and sensations from her lover. Alice stood up, lifting the redhead completely off the floor, her tongue working frantically over her succulent clit, her fingers gently pumping and ever-so-slightly building speed. She carried Quillan to the bed and laid her on her back. As she was busy tonguing Quillan, Alice removed her hand from the round butt, slipping her finger out, and began undressing herself with one hand. A little awkward, but she managed to do to it without losing either contact or rhythm. One sleeve was still on her arm. A quick yank took care of that and she tossed the ruined jumpsuit over her shoulder, settling in for some serious pussy licking. Quillan was moaning and groaning fairly loudly, so Alice engaged the sound dampening feature of the room. If anyone had been walking past the captain's cabin at that moment, they would have heard Quillan's groans of ecstasy suddenly stop as if a switch had been flipped. "How...do...you...?" Quillan began, but was interrupted by a small tingling, as of electricity to her clit. She came, her ass jumping off the bed as her back muscles contracted, her hands grabbing handfuls of bedcover, a protracted moan of pure ecstasy. Alice buried her face, nuzzling Quillan's clit with her nose as her tongue wormed its way into the redhead as far as possible. Alice rapidly shook her head from side to side, her tongue pistoning in and out. Quillan, back arched and hips still in the air, could only sigh and groan, totally at the mercy of the blonde cyborg. After determining that Quillan was almost unconscious from coming over and over, Alice slowed her tongue and headshaking. She gently nipped Quillan's lips, giving them a last long lick upwards. She sighted along Quillan's taut body, seeing the heaving chest, the stiff, pointed nipples standing up proudly. Quillan's butt sank onto the bed once again as her back muscles relaxed and she looked down at Alice to see a predatory grin from the beauty. "Ummm..." was all Quillan could say as Alice slowly slid upward between her legs, her body in full contact with Quillan's, their eyes locked. As Alice's face grew closer to Quillan's, smooth skin sliding on smooth skin, the redhead was struck by the blonde's resemblance to a lioness stalking its prey. Alice's trailing hair lent itself to heightening the pleasure as the two bodies seemed to become one for a split second, Quillan shivering with a small orgasm. With a twinkle in her eye, Alice kissed Quillan. A long, slow, passionate kiss, their nude bodies pressed tightly together. She tucked her hips. Quillan felt something slide smoothly into her, filling her. Curious. She hadn't noticed Alice put on a strapon. More curious. It wasn't cold or even cool as a strapon usually was. It was warm. It felt natural. It was a perfect fit. She couldn't feel any straps at her thighs or the pad to which was normally affixed a dildo. This felt like a real... Her eyes went wide as she hugged her lover and locked her legs around Alice's waist, smiling into the kiss. Alice smiled back lovingly, her kiss growing in intensity as she pushed all the way into Quillan, making minute adjustments to her cock; the optimal length and width reached when Quillan's sighs achieved the correct pitch and intensity. Quillan gently broke the kiss. "Do I even want to know how or why?" she asked carefully, as Alice slid smoothly in and out. This was heaven. A perfect fit. "I did it because I love you with all of what I consider to be my heart and soul, Quillan," Alice replied, her gorgeous green eyes focused on the object of her desire, pumping her hips slowly. "I used the same sequencing to build this attachment. Although, mine has the benefit of full retraction. I can extend it or leave it inside at my whim." "And you did this for me?" asked Quillan, closing her eyes to better concentrate on the various sensations; sexy voice, smooth breasts and soft body, silken hair brushing her face, hard cock inside her. "All for you," Alice purred softly, tilting her head to plant several kisses on Quillan's cheek and the side of her neck. A nibble of earlobe. Quillan said nothing more, her actions speaking for her as she and Alice rocked slowly, perfectly in synch with one another. Quillan's breathing gradually became ragged. She dug her heels into Alice's ass cheeks, spurring the cyborg to fuck her harder and harder. Alice was slamming into Quillan, shaking the entire bed; the headboard thumping into the wall faster and faster. "That feeling is beginning againnn..." Alice purred, pumping furiously. "I've remedied the problem of the entire system rebooting, though. And you won't get pregnant, because I'm sterile." She grunted, continuing to pump while she squirted into Quillan's depths. Quillan, already on the edge of another massive orgasm, came at the same moment, the explosion of love and lust causing them both to cling to each other for dear life. ---------------------------------------- In the mess hall, the two soft-serve ice cream machines emptied their contents onto the floor, much to the dismay of the cooks. The chief cook, convinced the machines were on the fritz, began beating on them with a frozen turkey. ---------------------------------------- In orbit around Tau-Ceti, PINK MIST and MON-COFFLA traveled side by side, separated by a mere one hundred meters. Even though they were "hidden" in Alliance territory, the PINK MIST's automatic sensors, along with Salli, were passively scanning the area around them, and would give plenty of notice of enemy activity. Grinning ear to ear, Jesse breezed into the packed mess hall, the room erupting into applause at the sight of the flamboyant tailor/launderer who had custom-fitted the pink uniforms with purple edging. Somehow, he had made even the manliest of the crew look every inch a warrior in the "sissified" color. Woe be to the non-crewman who poked fun at the chosen color scheme. Dressed in the same "Class A" uniform, Jesse had taken extreme liberties with his own. He had widened the collar so much that it appeared to have wings at the neck. The shoulders also had been widened and enhanced to give the look of a Japanese samurai warrior of old. Instead of the formfitting sleeves and legs, his were reminiscent of dancer costumes, circa mid-late twentieth century; diaphanous, billowy sleeves and tight-kneed, HUGE bell-bottomed legs. Around his waist was a pulsing ever-changing colored belt. His manhood was packed into a tight, fabric-covered bulge resembling a pink tennis ball. He had dyed his hair again...this time it was fluorescent purple with pink highlights, exactly matching his uniform. He clasped his hands and waved them in the air in a victory gesture, then bowed deeply, and proceeded to glad-hand his way to the back of the room, kissing one of Hitchcock's Horrors on the cheek and settling into the man's lap, draping an arm around his neck. Seated along one wall were the leaders of the fighting groups, as well as Alice and Charleen. The door to the mess hall again hissed open, Charleen leaping to her feet and yelling, "OFFICER ON DECK!" as Quillan strode in. Murmured conversation ceased as everyone in the room snapped to attention. Well, almost everyone. Seated in his boy-toy's lap, Jesse was unceremoniously dumped onto the floor as his warrior-fuck's reflexes took over, the man shooting to his feet to stand at attention. Jesse levered himself up, using his boyfriend's cock as a handhold, rubbed his bruised butt and attempted some form of attention. Being "unmilitary," his posture wasn't as exact, but at least he tried. His boyfriend's cheeks ran with tears, eyes bulging, his face a rictus of agony, but military protocol demanded that he not make a sound; besides, he didn't want to appear weak before his squad. "As you were," ordered Quillan, smiling around at the crew as they sat back down. "I'm proud of you all. Every single one of you. We lost a few in that battle and they are all sorely missed. Some were friends, some were lovers. Husbands and wives. Boyfriends and girlfriends. Not a single one of them failed. Not a single one of YOU failed. We took on two Mongan aircraft carriers, single-handedly, and WON. We even got a new ship and crew member out of the deal." The last was said with a nod toward Alice in reference to the creation of Salli. "As a reward to you all for such an outstanding, almost textbook, attack and execution, you shall all receive a half-share in addition to your normal pay. I expect a good job, and when an EXCELLENT job is performed, there are rewards. "You all signed on with me in the hopes of making money. When we deliver our haul, the scrap metal, weapons, turrets, and other things we've acquired, you will be paid in accordance with the pay schedule shown to you when you were hired. At that time, you may choose to stay on or leave the ship. Some of you are in it for a fast credit. Others want a home. Whatever your reasons, they are yours and yours alone. I have my own reasons for doing this type of work and plan to continue for a long, long time." She paused to allow for a subject change. "Commander Wilkerson, Commander Nine, Gunner's Mate Mansberg, Lieutenant Jeffers, Flight Leader Talbot, Petty Officer Dinnington; front and center, please." The five exchanged glances with one another, slowly rose to approach, and stood at attention in front of their captain. "Commander Wilkerson," said Quillan as she moved to stand in front of the short-haired, large-chested woman "There are now two ships in this little pirate band. Would you happen to know a former ship's captain that we could contact and ask to command the other one?" The hair on the back of Charleen's neck stood up as her knees grew weak and the smile on her face threatened to tear her lips apart. "Yes, ma'am, I know just the person." "Would you care to have that particular individual take a step forward?" "I would, Captain," said Charleen, beaming, "but her legs are frozen at the present time and she can't move." Amanda, standing next to Charleen, gave her a good shove and she stumbled forward. Chuckles around the room. "Commander Charleen Wilkerson, I hereby promote you to the rank of captain and relinquish control of the MON-COFFLA to you. You and the ship are STILL under my command, though. Your first order, as captain of that vessel, is to change its name to one of your own choosing. Understand that the name of that vessel will be registered with the proper authorities, so I advise you to choose the name wisely." "Yes'm," replied Charleen, still grinning ear to ear. "Do I have to choose the name this minute?" "Take your time, Captain Wilkerson," said Quillan. "A ship's name must 'fit' the ship, as you know. It's not to be taken lightly." Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 06 "I'll let you know, ma'am. Thank you." She stepped back into line. Quillan sidestepped and looked slightly downward at Amanda. "Captain Wilkerson will need a communications specialist, you know," she said. "And that posting really should be occupied by someone who is at least a lieutenant. The reason being that, in the event of an emergency and since that person is already on the bridge, he or she needs to be able to take control and make swift decisions. Petty Officer Dinnington, do you know who that posting should go to?" "I do, Captain," replied Amanda, in her own voice. She turned and pointed across the room at Lt. Klaksell, the one who had helped liberate the little Parrot from her slave masters. "Her." More chuckles around the room, Quillan smirking and waving a hand for the room to settle down. "But," Quillan reasoned to the girl, "if Charleen goes to the other ship and Lt. Klaksell goes with her, that means that you'd stay here to be my communications officer." She paused to let it sink in. Amanda was brilliant and terrific at her job of communications, but when it came to subtle hints...sometimes she needed prodding. "Amanda Dinnington, as captain of this vessel and commander of these troops," she intoned, "I hereby promote you to the rank of Lieutenant and transfer you from this ship onto the captured Mongan vessel which is now under the command of Captain Charleen Wilkerson. Such appointment to be effective immediately." Amanda's brow furrowed, then a lightbulb went on in her head. She whirled and threw her arms around Charleen who caught her neatly and spun her around. "Gunner's Mate Mansberg and Lieutenant Jeffers, I promote you both to the rank of Lieutenant Commander. "Mister Mansberg, in addition to your duties as drop officer and commander of the powered armor units, should you accept, you are the new First Officer. Commander Nine has already accepted the position of Executive Officer. "Mister Jeffers, you are now in charge of coordinating flight schedules with Charleen's ship and will oversee the PM Flight as a whole. I caution you, Mister Jeffers, that Flight Commander Talbot knows a hell of a lot more than you do about fighter combat and advise you to listen closely to her suggestions. She refused the posting because she'd rather be airborne, but has agreed to school you in the areas of close fighter support and tactics. "Do you both accept?" The enormous human affectionately known as Muffin, actually giggled, sounding something akin to a twin-autocannon, vigorously nodding his head. Jeffers stiffened a little more and spoke, hiking a thumb at Muffin, "Captain Margoles, I speak for the Walking Wall as well as myself when I say that we are honored and humbled by these positions. We will not fail you." Handshakes all around whereupon the room broke into a rousing chorus of the centuries old, "What Do You Do With A Drunken Spacer?"; the additions getting raunchier and raunchier as the crew got drunker and drunker. ---------------------------------------- FLASHPOINT BREAK BREAK BREAK BEGIN ENCRYPT PROTOCOL THETA 1 CHECK SECURE TO: CAPTAIN, PINK MIST FROM: MILCOM ACTUAL A Mongan supply depot under construction has been detected 250,000 km outside of Alliance territory. This is much too close for comfort. Four fast frigates are on-station as light defense. One equipment barge is also present. Make the problem disappear. Coordinates to follow. MESSAGE ENDS FLASHPOINT CLEAR CLEAR CLEAR ---------------------------------------- The PINK MIST folded to the edge of Alliance territory, tucked neatly behind an airless planet. Jeffers maneuvered the dreadnaught so their sensor suites and cameras could barely see the target. A rogue asteroid had been seized by the Mongans and construction begun. Maneuvering jets had been affixed to it in order to provide a certain amount of guidance or, in this case, hold it stationary. "Mister Mansberg," Quillan addressed Muffin, "wanna play sniper with our torpedoes?" "I can hit 'em, Captain," came the rumbling reply. "The problem is the distance. They'd detect the burn. I dunno what the hell they'd do, but I'm pretty sure we wouldn't like it." "PINK MIST to EXETER," the redheaded captain said in response. She was seated in her command chair in her customary posture of one leg folded beneath her. "We need a distraction. Alter your course to the coordinates I'm sending you. That'll put you on the far side of our target at a forty five degree angle to us, out of our line of fire. When you arrive, fire from extreme range to get their attention. I don't care if you hit anything or not. Send your estimated time of arrival to Muffin so he can coordinate his launch." "Affirmative, PINK MIST," sounded Charleen's voice. "We're at lightspeed and have altered course accordingly. ETA is one minute, forty three seconds at...MARK!" Muffin's fingers went into motion, starting his own timer and targeting the asteroid. He queued up two proton/hydrogen torpedoes, locking them on-target to detonate at equidistant points, his brain calculating their travel times. The resulting explosion would not only destroy the asteroid, but the debris would rip the fast frigates and the construction barge apart. He would need to launch several seconds before the arrival of the EXETER. If he launched too soon, the inbound destruction would be picked up by their sensors. If he launched too late, all four frigates would be out of range of the destructive blast. A straight shot was impossible, as the gravity of planet below them would merely suck the torpedoes down and they would only make new craters on the surface. His timer counted down. At the estimated second, he triggered the torpedoes and watched them streak away from the ship, already starting to curve around the planet on their way to turn the asteroid into space dust. At the same instant, Charleen's voice sounded over the speakers. "EXETER to PINK MIST. We've had a blow out in damper three. Had to drop from warp for a minute to fix it. ETA is now three minutes, fifteen seconds." Muffin turned in his seat to look at Quillan. "I can bring 'em back, Captain. They've got another twenty seconds before..." A flash of light appeared as a torpedo struck an unseen object. "...the hell?" He turned back to his own screen to check the status of the torpedoes. One was gone. "Alice," asked Quillan, "what was that? Did the thing detonate prematurely?" "No, Captain Quillan." Even with heightened intensity in her voice, Alice's voice stirred Quillan's emotions. "The torpedo struck a stealthed Mongan reconnaissance vessel. Backtracking the projected path of the ship, it appears to have simply blundered into the path of the torpedo. It wasn't intentional." On the main viewscreen, one of the frigates had broken away from the asteroid and was approaching the area of the explosion. "Captain," Lt. Klaksell said, looking up from the communications console, "they got a signal off to carrier/destroyer patrol." "Holy shit," Quillan muttered under her breath. She unfolded her leg as she spoke and began punching buttons on her console, changing the configuration of her console as well as tying in to several other consoles. She reached beneath her seat and withdrew a set of virtual reality goggles, pulling them down over her eyes. "Mister Jeffers, move us away from this planet; give us some room to maneuver. Mister Klaksell, charge the shields, then inform the EXETER of our predicament and tell them to just 'get here.' Mister Mansberg, charge all weapons. Mister Nine, sound ship's combat alarm." ---------------------------------------- "GOD-FUCKING-DAMMIT, YOU TRASHMATTER FUCKING SLAX-FIRE, GREEN-PUKING, ORANGE-FACED, VERMINISTIC, LITTLE COCKSUCKERS!" Muffin's basso voice bellowed into his headset as his fingers constantly targeted and fired at the onslaught of Mongan fighters. The space outside the ship was crisscrossed with multicolored laser and plasma beams of all sizes. "WHERE'S THE GODDAMN EXETER?!?!?" Alice stood immobile on the bridge of the PINK MIST, eyes closed, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as she methodically worked the lasers which had been left vacant when half the ship's crew had been transferred to the EXETER a month ago. They hadn't had the chance to hire more crew yet. "EXETER will be on-station in forty five seconds," Lt. Donella Lasiter spoke up from the communications console. Various voices issued from the comm speakers, the cacophony making Quillan wish she had kept Amanda aboard.. "Good shot, Lucky! You and Needles come get these fuckers behind me. Can't shake 'em." "Harmless, Guido, Deskjockey, form up on the starboard side. They're coming around to try for the bridge." "GET SOME, YA LITTLE ORANGE BASTARDS!" yelled Muffin, as two wing-to-wing Mongan fighters were torn apart by strafing fire from a triple-laser array. The debris continued toward the PINK MIST and bounced harmlessly off her forward shields. "Mr. Jeffers," spoke Quillan in her unflappable conversational tone, "come left three-seven degrees, up-attitude six-four degrees, increase speed four points, please." As she spoke, Jeffers echoed her word for word in reply to confirm her orders. He pulled his joystick back toward his left thigh, at the same time nudging the thrust control forward a tiny bit. Quillan targeted a small bit of space rock in the appropriate area and used the tractor beam to jerk it toward the ship. "Mr Jeffers, I suggest you move us out of the way of that rock. It will hurt an awful lot should it hit us." "Cloudy, watch him! Tricky little bastard!" "Can Man! Come right! RIGHT! RIGHT! Your OTHER right!" "FUCK! Seven of 'em after m----" "Shit, they got Can Man. Book, Big Blue, form on me. It's revenge time." Jeffers sideslipped the ship to the right as the tractor beam was shut off, the momentum of the fighter-sized space rock carrying it past at high speed. Quillan, her VR goggles tied to the ship's cameras, swiveled her view to observe the space behind the PINK MIST. As she watched the rock hurtle past the ship, she targeted the Mongan destroyer behind her and unleashed a barrage of hammerpoint pulse laser fire from every turret available to her. Her intent wasn't to destroy the trailing ship, rather she wanted to weaken the shields enough to... The port-forward shield collapsed as the rock struck directly behind the bridge of the offending vessel, slowed slightly, but not enough to avoid damage. The irregularly shaped rock slammed into the destroyer's hull and carried enough force to cause a major tear in the skin. Quillan was rewarded with the sight of several Mongan bodies being launched into space; evacuated by the internal pressure. The view of the craft flashed red in Quillan's goggles indicating that the shield was down. She swept the hammerpoints around the area as if stirring a cooking pot. After just a few seconds, a hole had opened completely through the ship. She triggered two torpedoes carrying the large towing cables. "Powered suits, cable one. Lizards, cable two." A fluorescent pink Mongan carrier winked into existence as it completed its lightspeed trek. It was four hundred miles from the PINK MIST, its laser cannon and augmented plasma arrays instantly opening up on the Mongan fighters. "EXETER to PINK MIST," said a smiling Charleen. "We heard there was some fun going on over here. All fighters are cleared for launch." "Hi, guys! Can we play?" A familiar voice from a fighter, the whine of an engine winding up being heard in the background. "'Bout trashmatter time, Twinkie! Get your cute ass up here!" This from Krystine "Witchiepoo" Talbot. The top of the massive carrier clamshelled open and, led by a bright pink Mongan fighter, spewed other one- and two-man bright pink fighters into space. Like heat-seeking missiles, they blasted toward the PINK MIST and doggedly started pursuing the Mongan fighters. "Horrors and Saints on board. Lizards in motion. Sterilization commencing." "Witchiepoo, ya need help?" "Shit, four to one? They better get more guys. Kick over and help Cloudy." The Mongans, now fighting on two fronts, turned their attention toward the EXETER, leaving the PINK MIST to begin a more stabilized approach to destruction. "Captain," said Lt. Klaksell, monitoring shields as well as communications, "the rear shield is down to fourteen percent. Ventral shield is nineteen." "Thank you, Lieutenant. Detach the cables, please," replied Quillan, smoothly but quickly, "Mr. Jeffers, if you would, turn us with haste." The huge dreadnaught heeled hard to the right, trying to present its top to the incoming fire from the damaged destroyer. On the other side of the destroyer sat the Mongan carrier MON-JALPON, its light pulse-laser arrays winking steadily as it added its firepower to that of the destroyer's. Before the PINK MIST could bring her dorsal shields to full bear, the ship was rocked by a massive explosion. The destroyer had been able to fire it's twin pulse plasma-proton artillery. The results were not pretty. Alice's eyes flew wide. The rear shield had failed completely. The balls of bastardized plasma and proton energy had ionized the metal they had hit, punching a pair of holes through the two-foot thick hull, directly into the fusion reactor chamber. The reactor's safety functions did their jobs and instantly shut down the reactor, thereby causing main propulsion to cease and all shields to drop. The automatic power nodes came on. The PINK MIST was now on battery power. At the current rate of power consumption, the guns would cease to operate in a little over half an hour. Subsequent systems would begin shutting down. The last thing in operation would be life support. "Saints Actual to PINK MIST. Destroyer MON-DALANN has been neutralized. Sorry we weren't quicker." Major Specter's voice. Quillan raised one eyebrow, curled her lip, and tapped a finger rapidly on the arm of her chair. This was an extreme annoying situation. "All hands, this is the captain," she said, calmly. "These guys are pissing me off. Don your atmo-suits. All PM craft, break off and hunker down behind the EXETER. We are about to pinwheel. You have thirty seconds." The heavy repairbots were already in motion, crawling along the exterior of the PINK MIST with enormous metal plates to repair the damage as best they could. As the shields went down, the Mongan fighters broke off their attacks on the EXETER and headed straight back toward the PINK MIST unimpeded as the PM fighters were burning toward the far side of the EXETER. EXETER'S shields became an almost opaque blue as the power output to them was maximized. The bright pink Mongan fighter broke away from the rest of the PM flight and arrowed over the crippled dreadnaught, on its way toward the inert destroyer. It flew into the hole in the ruptured ship, paused to pick up two powered-armor suits which attached themselves to its hull, then blasted out the other side at full throttle, arcing back as it headed for the carrier MON-JALPON. The entire way, it's refitted pulse-laser cannon targeted and fired precisely dead center on the main viewport, its aim never wavering as it danced and dodged the incoming enemy fire. It punched through the weakened forward shields of the Mongan carrier, the shimmering and sparking of the collapsed shields winking off the shiny pink vessel. Mere feet from the command viewport, it stopped, turning the powered-armor hitchhikers into nine-foot tall bullets. Sheer momentum carried the suits through the transparent aluminum port. Quillan keyed the sequence to initiate the pinwheel maneuver. A countdown appeared on the mainscreen, superimposed on the Mongans swarming around the PINK MIST. Her own guns were still firing and chopping holes in the fighters, but would soon be overwhelmed. Pinwheeling was the only option...and would use the rest of the power. The last-ditch effort of the PINK MIST was glorious to witness, deadly to be around. The small maneuvering jets of the huge vessel all fired at once, those along its axes aligned in the same direction. As the dreadnaught began turning end over end, gaining momentum, the side jets began to roll it. An onlooker wouldn't be able to tell which direction the thing faced, as its attitude changed constantly. Suddenly, every laser, plasma array, and slug-thrower began slinging its own deadly cargo around, firing in all directions at once, not targeting anything specific. The people inside the PINK MIST closed their eyes as their feet were suddenly where their heads used to be. More than a few people vomited. This was the ultimate rollercoaster ride. The repairbots on the hull used their own powerful electromagnets to hold them firmly in place. The interior safety features, which had been developed on board, came on to provide a flowing internal shield. It followed each person's bouncing body, the computer determining trajectory, and sent a "cushion" in front of the person. Similar to the Earth-Actual balloon bounce rides; but much smoother and more deadly if it failed. Somewhere during the pinwheeling, the entire complement aboard the PINK MIST lost consciousness. ---------------------------------------- "Commander Wilkerson," said a perky female voice, with youthful exuberance, "there are two-hundred-one bodies aboard the PINK MIST. I detect two-hundred-one life signals in various stages of consciousness. Seven are on the bridge and the independent life support for that area is functioning. The rest are clad in atmosuits and are in no immediate danger. All enemy craft are incapacitated or destroyed. I would suggest magnetic torpedoes placed at strategic points to stop the ship's spinning. Shall I deploy them now?" "Yes, Salli. Do that immediately," replied Charleen, turning to Amanda. "Send half the remaining squadron over to retrieve the mercs and lizards from the destroyer; the other half is to shoot over to that damned carrier and kill that bastard. Quillan did a lot of damage to it, but I want to make sure nothing moves in, on, over, or around it." Amanda's hands flew over her comm panel, relaying the instructions. "Make sure nothing moves in, on, over, or around it," she mumbled in Charleen's voice. Salli, the Strategic Algorithmic Logical Launch Intelligence, opened the forward torpedo bays and, at seemingly random intervals, emptied the torpedo tubes in the general direction of the PINK MIST. She had calculated the best places on the hull to affix the magnetic torpedoes in order to stop the dreadnaught's spin. Unfortunately, it meant the demise of a repairbot, as one of them was attached to the exact spot needed. The wink of a pulse laser and the bot was gone. The torpedoes described varying arcs as their simple on-board computers homed in and attached themselves to the hull of the PINK MIST. They began firing short bursts at the proper instant, gradually slowing the dreadnaught's tumbling. The panel situated in front of Charleen started a strident beeping. She glanced down, muttered an oath and opened the "All Personnel" channel. "Now hear this," her tension-filled voice sounded through every speaker and in every headset around. "I want to be out of here in two and a half hours, because in THREE hours we're gonna be neck deep in Mongans. Inbound to our position are eight, I repeat, eight carriers. Each of those has four destroyers, two battleships, two cruisers, twenty fast frigates, and a shitload of pissed-off troops." "Don't forget the partridge in the pair of trees!" chimed in a giggling Salli over the speakers. "That's a 'pear tree,' Salli," shot back a slightly annoyed Charleen. "Check under 'fruit,' Stop with the jokes and do your job. Your sister and her friends are in trouble." Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 06 Charleen, as every captain in the history of sailing, had practically killed herself learning everything there was to know about her ship. She had also picked up a few tricks during her years in the Alliance military. "Captain," stated her newly appointed executive officer, Jans Torgle, "it's going to take, at the very least, an hour for the PINK MIST to stop tumbling. Not to mention that we'll have to move several million metric tons of metal. There's no way we can get both ships out of sensor range in two and half hours." "You are very astute, XO," Charleen replied, thumbing a button to bring up a view of the planet to their right. "We're going to hide in plain sight." Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 07 AUTHOR'S NOTE: One of the terrific things about writing fantasy or science fiction stories is that the laws of physics can be bent, stretched to the limit, or even broken. I'm not a physicist. I'm just me. Once again, I'd like to give special credit to those who helped me figure out certain phraseology. Thank you SO much for the comments and feedback, but PLEASE wait more than two days before asking when the next chapter is coming out. *giggle* ---------------------------------------- The PINK MIST was still tumbling, although much slower as the torpedoes continued firing their engines in short spurts, when the crew had all regained consciousness. Several commented that the experience was worse than any drug trip they'd ever had. Exterior cameras had been turned completely off and viewports closed to prevent the nauseating view outside from causing anymore dizziness. The ship's artificial gravity and internal balance compensators could at least keep up now, allowing normal internal operations to resume. With the fusion reactor down for the count, folding space was out of the question. Quillan and her senior crew sat in the secretive war room speaking to Charleen and her senior staff on a coded frequency; Charleen laying out in great detail the plan of hiding from the Mongan deathships, which would arrive in little over an hour and half. One of the powered armor suits sacrificed its tiny fusion reactor which was tied in to the life support systems and a low power transmitter. Already taxed to the limits, if anyone were to turn on a light, the reactor would shut down. "My turn," Quillan said, taking a sip of ginger ale to help settle her still-churning stomach. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" "Quillan," Charleen spoke seriously, "Salli's run it through her simulations over one hundred thousand times and determined that there's an eighty eight percent chance that the tactic will work. I did simulations of practically the same thing when I tested for my captaincy." "Eighty eight point four four four seven six two percent is a much better chance than point zero zero zero zero zero zero zero three," chimed in Salli. "That's the BEST percentage of survival if we try to run for it. We'd be toast." "Thank you, Salli," said Charleen. "Dogmeat." Thank you, Salli..." Charleen repeated, a little more tersely. "Vapored clouds on a Sunday aft..." "THANK YOU, SALLI!" yelled Charleen. "...ernoon..." Charleen sighed. Quillan glanced around the room at the faces present, settling on Alice. "Well, Commander Nine? It IS your body we're talking about. You have the final say in the matter." Alice's "glow" was gone. While still a marvelous woman to behold, it was evident that there was something wrong with her, her complexion wan and waxen, her usually cheerful demeanor was greatly subdued. Even her voice had taken on an odd undertone. Most terrifying, to Quillan anyway, was Alice's lack of smile. She appeared beaten. "Captain Quillan," she asked, her usual purring voice almost one of desperation, "may I disconnect this transmission and confer with Salli for a moment? I have some questions to ask her." Quillan cast a questioning eye at the translucent vision of Charleen which hovered over the table. Charleen shrugged and nodded. "You may, Commander," replied Quillan. "Charleen, if you don't hear from us in five minutes..." She took a deep breath. "...assume that we are no longer able to make contact due to our power problem and carry out your plan. Before we go, how'd you do on your test simulations of this type of scenario?" "Killed the crew, but the ship survived." The connection was cut. ---------------------------------------- Alice's network avatar, a multicolored fluorescent ball with feet, scampered into the systems of the EXETER. There waited Salli, her avatar that of a small, light brown Welsh Corgi dog. The pair greeted each other and passed into the simulator program, the dog running along to each of the individual parameters which had been input. The parameters had been altered slightly to allow for velocity, angle of descent, gravity, angle of impact, lack of maneuverability, and over a thousand other variables. Alice input and combined her own sets of variables with those of Salli's and ran one hundred thousand test simulations; the Alliance norm for computers to correlate the proper data. With the outcome complete, they said their goodbyes and Alice traveled the short distance back to her cyborg body on the PINK MIST. Four thousand, six hundred, seventy two milliseconds had elapsed. Just over four and a half seconds. ---------------------------------------- "Captain Quillan," Alice's tone had perked up a little bit, "the crew's chances of survival have improved to ninety seven percent. Mine, however, are still eighty eight percent. Captain Wilkerson's plan is sound." Quillan stood up, crooking a finger at Alice as she headed for the door. The pair crossed the hall and entered the captain's cabin. "What do you mean by that?" asked Quillan. "It's very simple, Captain," said Alice. "You and the rest of the crew transfer to the EXETER and I do my part. I'll be the only one aboard so, should something go wrong, I'll be the only one to suffer the consequences." Quillan shook her head. "This is my vessel. You're my girlfriend. You're this vessel. I'm not leaving you by yourself." "Quillan," Alice stepped closer, touching her forehead to Quillan's as they looked each other in the eye, "all the simulations I ran with biological forms aboard ended badly for the biologicals. There was zero survival in all cases." A gleam appeared in Quillan's eye, as she tipped her head to lightly peck Alice on the lips. "Did you run a simulation where the biological is ejected at the last second?" she asked, winking. Alice giggled, a flat humorless sound. "No," she said in reply, a tiny, almost imperceptible change in her tone, "I guess that's why you're the captain, huh?" ---------------------------------------- With little more than hour left until the arrival of certain death, the PM flight, now including Quillan's former cargo ship, the HAWK'S WING, was busy ferrying atmo-suited crew members to the EXETER. The techbots, operating on their own battery power, had gone into high gear to efficiently pull the fusion reactors from all but one of the powered armor suits and tie them together in order to provide power for a one-shot defensive shield for the PINK MIST. Salli had maneuvered the EXETER directly behind and slightly above the PINK MIST, calculating the best possible angle to apply pressure in order to shove the dreadnaught toward the planet below. The different bots had been secured in their own niches. The weapons and other items gleaned from battle were shipped to the EXETER, as was a major portion of the processed scrap metal, the rest of the detritus was ejected to mix with the rest of the dead Mongan ships. Once all crew had been transferred, Salli remotely piloted the empty HAWK'S WING back to the PINK MIST, where Quillan drove the power suit into an airlock aboard the cargo craft and secured it in place. Cyborg Alice and Quillan donned atmo-suits, climbed into the cargo craft, disengaged the container and flew the craft to the top of the dreadnaught. There, Quillan backed against the huge craft and used the docking clamps to grab hold of a large stress bar, thereby becoming part of the ship. "Charleen," Quillan said over the communications channel, "if you don't get a signal from us in two weeks, make straight for Purgatory. The only words out of your mouth to ANYONE are, 'The Mayor of India has arrived.' They'll put you in touch with Infernus. Tell him who you are and that you need to ditch the stuff you've got. Like I've said before, he's an asshole and a crook, but he'll do right by you." "Captain," Charleen replied, "we'll see you in a couple of weeks." Quillan turned her head to look at Alice, clad in her atmo-suit, winked at the beauty and said into the headset, "Hit it." Salli engaged her rear engines for a burn of five minutes, constantly altering her angle to keep the PINK MIST on its prescribed course toward the airless planet. Precisely three hundred seconds after she began pushing, she cut power by fifty percent, letting the monster dreadnaught drift away to begin spiraling downward. When the PINK MIST was a mile distant, the EXETER turned and engaged the lightspeed drive. The laws of physics changed dramatically at one hundred eighty six thousand miles per second. When lightspeed had finally been achieved in the late twenty second century, it was quickly discovered that the theories taught in school were wrong. The most commonly taught mistake was that a faster-than-light vehicle could not activate its drive in a gravity well; in proximity to a planet, for example. Also taught was that all matter remained static; a brick remained a brick. Basic physics taught that one solid object could not pass through another solid object. When lightspeed was attained, the vehicle in question became surrounded by a phase bubble allowing it to pass through solid objects. Hence, a ship could travel in a straight line without fear of taking damage from a pesky planet. Of course, there was still a danger, however slight, of colliding with another object which was also traveling at lightspeed...like a recently exploded star. It was a short hop for the EXETER to get back into Alliance territory, but Charleen wanted to put as much distance between the ship and the battlespace as possible. Just after entering friendly space, they dropped from warp, ejected a passive listening drone, then re-entered warp. Their destination was Katham VIII and the offered help from that planet. The passive drone was specifically keyed to Alice's operational signature. It would sit quietly, its pinhead-sized "dirty" fission nuclear reactor offline. When Alice sent an all-clear signal, the drone's reactor would "heat up," its directional antenna would home on the EXETER, squirt transmit the signal, then overload and self-destruct. Per Quillan's instructions, it also had a timer aboard which would cause the thing to detonate after sixteen days, signal or no signal. ---------------------------------------- Gravity's pull on the PINK MIST steadily grew stronger, her forward momentum remaining constant. She circled the planet, getting lower and lower by the moment. Since the maneuvering jets were offline, she was the equivalent of a space rock. Quillan and Alice leaned toward each other, gave a lingering kiss, then straightened in their seats and cinched their harnesses tightly. They lowered the faceplates on the atmo-suits and were rewarded with green lights on the translucent heads-up displays, signifying that the suits were sealed properly. Alice's body, being a constructed cybernetic organism, still required food, water, and most of all, air. Her body, although much tougher than any human, could still be injured and suffer the same ills. Lack of oxygen would be a bad thing. The HAWK'S WING's locked position on the hull of the PINK MIST prevented the pair from seeing anything outside other than the stars above. Quillan's eyes dropped and fixed on the altimeter, watching it drop rapidly as the PINK MIST hurtled downward. A thousand questions ran through her mind. Foremost being... If the ship didn't survive the impact, how would it affect Alice? Would her cyborg body die, too? Would her higher brain functions cease, leaving her a shell? Would she continue to operate, but at a greatly reduced capacity? She keyed her microphone. "Alice," she said, "I love you." Alice remained silent, but her glow increased. The altimeter counted down faster and faster as the dreadnaught descended. At the prescribed altitude of fifty meters above the ground, the HAWK'S WING's computer fired the emergency explosive undocking clamps and the ventral thrusters simultaneously. HAWK'S WING was propelled into the air as the thrusters, "slammed on the brakes," bringing her lateral movement to a virtual standstill. The PINK MIST rocketed away, her own forward and ventral shields began glowing bright blue as the daisy chained miniature fusion reactors gasped their last breaths. The immense dreadnaught's rear end hit the ground first, the shields casting aside all debris in a huge cloud. The deeply furrowed trail was easy enough for Quillan to follow as she nosed the HAWK'S WING over, triggered an active "watch" sensor, and pushed the acceleration lever to the stops to catch up with the now-grounded behemoth. Her own shields were at maximum, residual debris causing small blue winks as it rebounded from the energy field. A sudden thought came into her mind. This was almost the exact scenario when she had first met Alice. Oh, boy. That hadn't ended quite the way she had intended. But, she reasoned, she didn't know exactly what to expect then; she hadn't been in control of the situation. Here, she was. She knew exactly what to do and when. She was glad to note that she hadn't gotten soft during her command; her fingers flew over the controls and twitched the joystick to avoid larger objects which had fallen back to the ground in their path. Her reflexes were as fast as ever. Ahead, the dreadnaught had come to a complete stop, becoming buried under still-settling tons of dirt and rocks as Quillan tried to push the acceleration lever forward more. The throttle was already wide open. The HAWK'S WING screamed in low, the familiar collision alarms yelling and screaming. Quillan ignored them, flicking her eyes between the PINK MIST's rear end and the rapidly changing range indicator. She jerked the throttle to cut the rear thrusters, flipped a switch with her thumb to engage the forward thrusters, and slammed the throttle control to the stops once more, slowing the HAWK'S WING and sliding to a stop mere feet from the dreadnaught. The dust and debris settled, closing over them, leaving them buried under tons of earth. ---------------------------------------- "Debris. Survivors. All of it. Find me some humans. Now. The Empress will arrive shortly. I will not disappoint her." As much as I hate her, he added to himself. Marking eight feet, four inches, Mongan Royal Fleet Master Denlom Ganastra stared out the viewport at the devastation surrounding his fleet, his orange-skinned face in a deep scowl. "Fleet Master, all ships are on station and conducting a search. Our fighters have assumed global defense pattern. The MON-TALAJA reports the residual fallout from an impact on a planet just outside Alliance territory. Shall I send a search squad of that planet?" asked Communications Specialist Saldeth Agali. Ganastra sat in his command seat, leaning his chin on his fist, elbow propped on the arm of his uncomfortable chair. Why must these seats be so damned small? "Have them move as close as possible to the planet and perform their scans without breaching the border. Scan only. No landings. Warn them that if they break the line of demarcation, they will be destroyed," he replied, in a foul mood indeed. Several hours later, he received word that the MON-VALMAJA, the ship belonging to Her Royal Imperial Highness Trissteen Valmaja, was approaching. His mood darkened. He hated that woman with every fiber of his being. She was what the humans called a, "micromanager," telling everyone within earshot what SHE wanted done and how to deploy during a battle. She knew nothing of combat. And the bitch used her ship as taxicab. If she would put it into action, this could all be over in weeks. If her father could see... Ganastra sighed. The Man-O-War MON-VALMAJA could be seen with the naked eye almost as soon as it appeared on sensors. Four or five times larger than Infernus Purgatory and called the "flying hourglass" by many, it was wide at both ends and narrow in the middle; made up of seven individual sections like flat rings fitted together. It bristled with guns, antenna, and sensor suites. It carried an entire fleet of one thousand fighters. Virtually nothing could survive an encounter with it, if used properly. The Royal Fleet Master's screen lit up without preamble and the beautiful orange-skinned Empress smiled predatorily, the multiple rows of her silver teeth gleaming. Attached to her breasts were two slaves, one male, the other female, sucking greedily and obscenely. Knelt before her between her legs was another slave with his face buried in her crotch, also making slurping noises. To either side of her stood two very fine male slaves, their double-penises standing erect as she languidly stroked them. "Fleet Master," she greeted, then extended her tongues to lick the heads of a double-penis. "You have good news for me." It wasn't a question. "Empress," he nodded a greeting in return, his face neutral, his insides churning at the sight before him. "It appears that our quarry has fled back into enemy space. We have dispatched a scout craft to the border. They detected a recent impact and were assigned to scan the area. We should have a report very shortly." Communications Specialist Agali interrupted. "Fleet Master, the MON-TALAJA has found a very low power transmitter on the planet below. It's range will not allow it to transmit more than approximately fifty miles. There is also a long scar on the planet, indicative of a ship crash. They scanned the area and found only a large, many-chambered hole beneath the terrain, surrounded by metal. It's a ship, sir. There are no life signs, and a very weak fusion reactor in operation. Request instructions, Fleet Master." "Fleet Master," said the Empress lightly, "kill that one for intruding upon our conversation." "Yes, Empress," he replied, snapping his fingers. Two security members closed on the horrified communications officer and dragged him kicking and screaming from the bridge. Just before the doors swished shut, a gunshot was heard. Moments later, another communications officer arrived and took his place at the console, head down as he intently studied his panel and nothing else. "Clean up this mess, salvage what you can and send the rest into a star," said the Empress, hissing slightly as she orgasmed from the licking she was receiving. "Kill any warrior that you find alive. Incompetence will not be tolerated. Once that is complete, return to your regular patrol stations. We'll just have to find another spot to spy on the Alliance." "Of course, Empress," he said as he formally bowed his head. She disappeared from the screen, the signal shut off. Royal Fleet Master Denlom Ganastra did not get to be Royal Fleet Master by carelessly throwing away his troops. Yes, lives were lost in battle, but he sacrificed none. Especially for the whim of a slax-fire female as stupid as she. He had met many brave and cunning females in his day, but the Empress wasn't one of them. "Communications Officer Agali," Ganastra said, "tell the MON-TALAJA to hold station and intense-scan the area. They are to do nothing else. If a bug crawls within that ship, I want to know about it. Afterward, I want you to report to the mess deck and tell the cook to prepare whatever you wish. That was a fine performance." The first time the Empress had ordered an execution for incompetency, he had questioned her about it, then merely threw the offender off the bridge and called for someone to take his place. He discovered by trial and error that the Empress liked to hear an "execution" taking place, so he did what any devious Royal Fleet Master would do: he blatantly lied. The woman was too preoccupied with her sex slaves to realize that Communication Specialist Agali had been "killed" dozens of times. How he would dearly love to go down to that planet, dig out that vessel and see what he could find. He tapped a finger on the arm of his chair, deep in thought as he stared at an image of the little airless planet. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 07 ---------------------------------------- Their trick seemed to be working. The "watch" sensor which Quillan had dropped on approach had embedded itself in a rock and scanned the skies. Simple in design, it merely recorded data, most notably metal. Rather than providing an actual picture of the overhead sky, it displayed symbols and letters similar to DOS games of almost a millenia ago. X's and O's filled a monochromatic two-dimensional field, with another letter or number next to it to denote planets, ships, and other debris. Very cheap. Very simple. Very effective. The data signal from it was almost non-existent to lessen the chances of discovery. At random intervals, it squirted its data in all directions at once. Upon stopping, Quillan had shut down the shields, transmitters, and engines in order to project as small an electronic signature as possible. Then, she and Alice moved into the small living area to settle down for the next two weeks. The powered armor suit's small fusion reactor would certainly draw attention, however, it would provide enough "fuzz" on a scanner that life signs would blend in and become invisible. Since Alice's cyborg body was powered by the bioelectric energy inherent in all living things... ---------------------------------------- The EXETER came out of warp at a distance of five hundred thousand miles from Katham VIII. An easy two-day cruise and they made planetfall just outside of Colony Gelan. As was the case a few days previously, Chief of Station Arliss Ramaza and a few militia arrived to greet them. "Commander," greeted a smiling Ramaza, as Charleen descended the gangplank, Amanda at her side, "it's a pleasure to see you again so soon after your departure. The paint still looks wet." "I'm a captain now," she grinned, shaking his hand, "and this is my ship. We need to hide out for a while, if you don't mind. We managed to REALLY piss off the Mongans, this time." "Of course! Stay here as long as you wish." He turned to one of the militiamen. "Get some stealth modules out here. I want this ship to vanish from existence in four hours." The top of the EXETER clamshelled open, accompanied by the roar of fighter engines. The fighters lifted out of the bay and shot away by twos in different directions. The last out was the bright pink Mongan fighter. It nosed down and slowly approached the small group, Krystine "Witchypoo" Talbot sitting in the pilot's seat. She grinned her shark-toothed grin, gave the thumbs-up and shot straight up faster than the eye could follow. ---------------------------------------- In the cockpit of "PM One," as it was now officially designated, Krystine watched the ground beneath her fall away as the gee forces crushed her into the seat. "Salli," she asked, once she was at sufficient height, "is everyone ready?" "You betcha, Witchypoo! Go get 'em!" Salli's ever cheerful voice replied. "PM flight, this is Witchypoo. I have received confirmation that all of you people are ready to get your asses kicked. The hard deck is two hundred, I say again, two zero zero feet. Anything below that altitude and you are effectively smeared across the landscape." She spied the wink of sunlight from a pair of fighters a few miles to her right and pointed her fighter in that direction. First ones to go down... "Safety is first. Fun is second. The planet is your playground. Tally ho!" ---------------------------------------- "Captain Wilkerson," wondered Ramaza as he watched the fighters streak away, "didn't you just come from battle? Don't your pilots need a break?" Charleen shrugged and scratched her cheek, then put an arm around Amanda. "In Witchypoo's mind," she replied, gesturing at the dot in the sky, "rest time comes when SHE gets tired. Ever see vids of a Calathian razormoth in action?" "Yes, indeed. I'd hate to meet one." "She ate one for lunch yesterday." ---------------------------------------- Alice was in such a state that it was next to impossible to think of anything but their own survival. The watch scanner, sending data at irregular intervals of between a half hour and five hours, hadn't shown any indication that the Mongans suspected the two women were close by. Little by little, the debris disappeared, proving that they were salvaging what they could. Quillan sat on a bunk with her back in a corner as she cradled Alice and stroked her lovingly, occasionally muttering platitudes and whispered declarations of love. They were unable to check the full extent of the damage to PINK MIST, as powering up any scanner would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone was alive and hiding down here. Even taking a shower would activate the water pumps, emitting a different kind of electromagnetic field which could be picked up. Moist towelettes were used for personal hygiene, and a coupling had been loosened to allow the gathering of drinking water. Several empty buckets were to be used for waste disposal. Since life-support systems were tied directly to the fusion reactor, it was assumed by those above that it was behaving normally. The fact that Cyborg Alice was still operational was indication enough that the PINK MIST's mainframe computer was working...somewhat. ---------------------------------------- Charleen and Amanda wandered hand in hand down the road outside of the colony. The stars above were spectacular. Gradually, they turned off the road to make their way across a field, Amanda mooing at the few cows around. The cows gave both women curious glances, then wandered away from the unfamiliar duo. The pair found a chuckling stream, Amanda the Parrot imitating the sound perfectly. Charleen had long ago become used to Amanda's quirks: talking to herself or others in various voices, half-completed rambles, the sudden imitation of a new sound; finding them endearing rather than irritating. A low hiss approached from the sky overhead. As Salli hadn't given any indication of danger, Charleen merely turned her head to try to identify the sound. "Amanda, cover your ears!" Charleen said quickly, putting her palms over her own ears. Amanda didn't question the action, having complete trust in her love and captain. She slammed her hands over her ears just as the hiss reached a point directly overhead. A second later, a thunderous boom shook their bodies as a bright pink one-man fighter streaked overhead, exceeding the speed of sound. Still holding her ears, Charleen turned back to look in the same direction to spy another pink fighter in the moonlight. This one was PM One with Witchypoo at the stick. It blasted overhead, in hot pursuit of the first. ---------------------------------------- "Witchypoo," yawned Twinkie into her headset, twitching her fighter to avoid a missile lock, "we can keep this shit up all night, but I'm hungry." "Fuck you, Twinkie," chuckled Witchypoo. "Shoulda ate before we started this. Besides, I damn near had you over that lava field." "You're the boss, babe," replied Twinkie, "but my seat is absolutely drenched. The gee forces broke the urine collection bladder when I dodged behind that last outcropping. We've been in the air for seven hours and you've had me on the run for four of those. I concede defeat." "Chicken..." snickered Witchypoo, her eyes bloodshot, every muscle in her body screaming for a hot bath. "Alright, head on back to the EXETER. PM One is clear." Krystine banked her fighter to the right and headed for the EXETER. She'd found her personal limits with this fighter, not daring to push the alien technology to its own limits; it would definitely kill her. With Salli monitoring and remote piloting as necessary, Witchypoo had blacked out four times during the day due to the extreme maneuvers she had performed. She now knew precisely what she could and could not do with the fighter. As she was motionless in mid air, hovering in preparation for settling into the EXETER'S launch bay, her missile lock indicator sounded an alarm. "Gotcha, bitch!" laughed Twinkie. "You keep drilling into us that the fight is NEVER over until everyone's on the ground...in one form or another." Her laughter was joined by Krystine's. "Sneaky slut," Krystine continued to chuckle as she powered down the craft. "Join me for a shower and dinner?" ---------------------------------------- NEWSCOM, Earth-Actual – Military Intelligence reports that an armada of over five hundred Mongan ships has massed on the edge of Alliance territory. Details are sketchy at this time, but the Dreadnaught Battle Groups MALCOLM H RAYBURN and JEFFERY T KIRK are en-route. They are expected to arrive on scene shortly. ---------------------------------------- "This is the MALCOLM H RAYBURN battle group to the Mongan armada currently situated one quarter million miles from our space. State your intentions immediately." The vision of the Mongan commander appeared on the viewscreen. "This is the MON-JALARI, command vessel of this fleet, Royal Fleet Master Denlom Ganastra at your service, captain. We wish no trouble. We are merely rescuing some of our own from an unfortunate accident in neutrally appointed space. The reactor on one of our mining ships overloaded and detonated. We are searching for survivors and cleaning up the area; errant debris is so bothersome to space travel, don't you think? We'll be departing in two days, if that is permissible." Captain Alphonso Ramirez looked over at his navigator, her eyes locked on her instruments. She gave a slight shake of the head in reply. "Come on, Royal Fleet Master," Ramirez leaned forward in his seat, assuming a "let's be honest" posture. "Your guys ran into some trouble, got your asses kicked, and are looking for the people who did it. Right?" The orange-skinned Mongan grumbled slightly, caught in his standard lie. "Very astute observation, captain," replied Ganastra. "Would you happen to know who destroyed our ships?" Ramirez laughed long and loud. "Fleet Master, you MUST be joking! You know very well that I couldn't tell you, even if I knew. Come, sir. You are not an idiot and neither am I. I can assure you, though, it wasn't an Alliance ship or I'd have heard about it. Just take what you came for and leave peacefully. Neither of us wants to start a fight. Leave that to the politicos." Ramirez leaned back in his seat again. "And please don't give me that line, 'we've got more ships than you,' it's insulting." Ganastra smiled, showing rows of teeth. "My apologies if I insulted you, Captain," he said. "But, you have to admit that it was worth a try. We'll be gone in two days' time. Feel free to monitor us, if you wish." "Indeed we will monitor, Fleet Master. Very closely," Ramirez nodded in acknowledgment. "One last thing...don't direct any more scans toward Alliance territory. I've been told to interpret it as an act of war." ---------------------------------------- A scraping sound on the hull jerked them both awake. They lay embracing each other. More scraping sounds made them both sit up and grab for their slug throwers at the same time, then pad silently, Quillan in the lead, toward the sound. The scraping sound seemed to be moving toward the starboard airlock. As they passed it, Quillan reached a hand to turn out the overhead lights. Since there were no windows in this part of the ship, no light could escape to give them away. As soon as the lights went out, Alice's automatic systems switched her vision to passive infrared overlayed with a readout from her aural sensors, similar to ultrasound. This enabled her to "look" through the hull, as well as pinpoint the thumps and scrapes. She carefully laid a hand on Quillan's shoulder and pulled the redhead back slightly, indicating that the captain should follow. Quillan stopped to let Alice pass, then placed her free hand on Alice's right shoulder. Alice could see the very faint outlines of four humans moving slowly toward the airlock. They were waving their arms as one would do when moving heavy objects. Presently, a powerful searchlight appeared in the small window of the airlock and quickly withdrew when its owner spied two scared women with lethal slug throwers in their hands. The thought that he was in bulletproof powered armor never entered his mind. ---------------------------------------- Several miles above the planet, a small relay satellite received a signal and squirted the message to Katham VIII. The following nuclear explosion barely registered on the MALCOM H RAYBURN's shields. ---------------------------------------- Warning horns sounded aboard the EXETER. Charleen's hand flew to her hand-held carrier as she stood just outside the colony's limits watching crew members scramble from the ship; the deep rumble of the lift engines starting. "Salli," she asked, "what's going on?" "Captain Wilkerson, everyone needs to leave the ship!" Salli said, hurriedly. "I need to get out of here and get to a safe distance! No time to explain!" "Salli, I know you can do several things at once," Charleen said, with a "cut the crap" tone. "Now, tell me what's happening." The EXETER lifted off, her launch bay doors closing; all the people safely outside, all the fighters safely inside. "Captain," Salli said, calmly now that she was off the ground, "my sister's asked me to do something for her. Please don't make me tell you what it is. I can promise that it's for the best and you'll like the outcome. I'll be back in a few days. You're safe here." The EXETER quickly shrank to a pinpoint in the sky and was gone. Cursing a solid stream of epithets to do a Stellar Marine proud, Charleen slammed her hand-held carrier to the ground, stomped it a few times, then whirled and sprinted towards the communications building, her immense tits threatening to rip the fabric of her jumpsuit. Amanda, a few steps behind, was amazed that so large a woman could move so fast. Charleen burst into the room and yelled at the comm man to make contact with the EXETER and the PINK MIST at all costs. And get all of her crew to the meeting hall. Now. ---------------------------------------- "Captain Margoles," said Ramirez as he strode into the medical bay aboard the MALCOLM H RAYBURN, "we meet again." He cast an appreciative eye at Alice, his eyes lingering on her chest as he licked his lips. "Captain Ramirez, there's really no reason for us to be in medical. We weren't harmed in the landing, we had adequate food and water, and all we had to pass the time was sleep. I assure you that we are both in quite good health." Quillan sat with her legs hanging off the examination table, a medibot scanning her. Alice stood next to her, a look of defiance in those gorgeous green eyes...albeit not as bright as usual. Both women looked healthy enough, to be sure, but they could use a good shower and fresh clothes. Although the moist towelettes were handy for getting rid of body odor, they did little in the way of cleaning jumpsuits. "I understand, miss," he replied, "but this is a precaution. If I presented you to the President in anything less than spectacular condition, it wouldn't look too good on my record." Quillan quirked an eyebrow, narrowing her opposite eye. Alice's face took on that amused look again at seeing her girlfriend's expression. THAT was Quillan's, "You're shittin' me," look. The redhead hopped down from the table, drawing herself up to her full height and brushing the medibot away with a dismissive hand. "'Present me?' Like a trophy? What the hell are you talking about?" she asked, holding her arms tightly to her sides to stanch the funky smell. "Is President Cuthbertson coming here?" asked a smoky-voiced Alice. Ramirez was taken aback by the inquiry; not so much as the question itself, rather the tone and timbre of the sexpot before him, silent until now. His dick twitched and he vowed to himself to get her into bed before the day was through. "Uh, that would be a negative, Ghost Rider," he replied, quoting an old Tri-D movie. "This part of Alliance space is much too dangerous for him to visit. We're going to establish a realtime commlink for a little pow-wow." He looked over to the medibot, "Are they cleared to leave this space?" "Affirmative, Captain," stated the medibot flatly. "Advise against Commander Nine performing any strenuous activity for the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Her physiology is weakened for an unknown reason." "This way," Ramirez said, as if he hadn't heard the bot. He led the way toward the door. "Our guest quarters are directly next to mine." The layout of the RAYBURN was identical to that of the PINK MIST, both being Class 9 Dreadnaughts. Alice and Quillan followed Ramirez simply because it was his ship and they were guests. He walked up to the appropriate door, waited for it to obediently slide open, and gestured the pair inside. He actually leered when Alice passed him, eyes lingering on her well-rounded ass. "Realtime comm with Earth-Actual will be in two hours," he said, cordially, "fresh clothes are in the closet. Sorry they aren't pink, but I'm sure you understand." Quillan turned and smiled in return, unaware that he had been watching Alice. "Thank you, Captain Ramirez," she said, pleasantly. "What is to become of my ship?" "That will be discussed during the meeting," he replied, flicking a glance to Alice's chest one last time. The door closed. Before Quillan could move, Alice held up a finger, looking to the ceiling meaningfully. Quillan slowly closed her eyes in acknowledgment. The room was being monitored. ---------------------------------------- A bright pink Mongan carrier cruised slowly into sensor range of Infernus' Purgatory. A few curious ship's captains, several of them being Alliance, turned their sensors toward her, receiving readouts that she was indeed of Mongan registry. All of them figured that it was a craft probably built for specialized operations and so gave the ship a wide berth. It had been nothing for Salli to alter her automated return signals to those of the original MON-COFFLA, after all, this WAS the MON-COFFLA. She also sent a request for docking procedures. Infernus was no dummy. He had deliberately picked this particular spot in space in order to create a neutral area for all races and nationalities to carry on their legal or illegal activities. A million miles separated Purgatory from Alliance space, half a million from Mongan space, with various other distances to lesser declared territories. Infernus brooked no bullshit, though. Any hostility from any race brought swift retribution from Purgatory's massive arsenal. Hence, all patrons of the station minded their manners. They might not like each other, but they tolerated their enemies. The man in Docking Control dutifully scanned the board for an open bay close to the Mongan carrier and was mildly surprised that all were filled save the one directly beneath Infernus' office. That bay was usually reserved for the Boss' ship; the Big Guy must be off on a pleasure cruise. He started to send her to the other side of the station in order to keep this one open for the Boss, but the other bays just filled up. All of them. This was the only bay available. He weighed the options open to him: dock the carrier and let the crew spend their hard-earned cash aboard Purgatory, or risk the wrath of Infernus. He was certain that once Infernus, a greedy businessman, saw the reasoning behind his actions, he'd get off with merely being yelled at. Besides, this carrier had said that their length-of-stay would be no more than eight hours. He sent the required docking instructions and then went back to watching the Tri-D program in which he had been engrossed. He didn't notice that several bays suddenly opened up for docking. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 07 ---------------------------------------- A little brown Welsh Corgi dog trotted through the station's network, carrying an envelope in its teeth. The other avatars in the system barely glanced at it as it made its way through the maze of routers and cables. It rounded the corner to the mainframe and sat down in the middle of the "hallway." A red dragon sat motionless in front of a large steel door. Dropping the letter on the floor, the Corgi sat up and pawed the air, seeking permission to enter. WHAT DO YOU WANT? A cartoon bubble over the dragon's head asked. I'VE BEEN INSTRUCTED TO PLACE THIS FILE IN INFERNUS' PERSONAL FOLDER. Replied the dog with its own cartoon bubble. YOU ARE NOT THE USUAL MESSENGER. HE IS NOT IN HIS OFFICE? NO. HE'S AT ONE OF THE MAINTENANCE TERMINALS. ALL I NEED TO DO IS DROP THIS OFF AND I'LL BE ON MY WAY. I'M NOT STUPID. YOU'RE A HACKER. GO AWAY BEFORE I TRIGGER AN ALERT. The Corgi picked up the envelope and slowly moved toward the dragon, head lowered in a posture of submission. The dragon spread its wings, a tendril of smoke wafting from its nostrils. STOP THERE, INTRUDER. YOU WILL NOT BE WARNED AGAIN. SIR, said the Corgi, tipping its head up for the dragon to better see the letter, HERE IS THE VERIFICATION. The dragon reached a foreleg to take the envelope from the dog. Just as it's claws closed on the verification, the Corgi whipped it's head to the side and bit the dragon, sinking its teeth through the thick skin. Before the dragon could react, its code had been changed. It blinked in confusion, then bowed it's huge head. MY APOLOGIES, SALLI, it said. I DIDN'T RECOGNIZE YOU. YOU MAY PASS. PLEASE BE AS QUICK AS POSSIBLE. The metal door swung open, THANK YOU, KIND SIR. The Corgi trotted inside. Once inside the mainframe, it was simplicity to avoid the wandering security programs. Salli headed straight for the transportation program which controlled every door and shimmerpad on the station. She passed the "office" containing the sensors for the doors and dropped her envelope at the door. One of the security programs dutifully picked it up and carried it inside, placing it in the processing queue. The program then returned to its station, the package instantly forgotten. The envelope opened itself and several tiny Corgi dogs scampered out, making directly for prearranged sensors. Salli found what she sought... ---------------------------------------- Infernus' hand-held carrier dinged and reported a secure priority message was waiting. Did he want to view it now? No, he told it, he'd review the message in his office. He didn't trust the wireless networking to transmit sensitive data. In Purgatory's security office, Chief Capino received the same message, as did Vanessa Harbinger, proprietor of the Cemetary. They had hurt the love of her sister's life. They had hurt Captain Wilkerson's girlfriend. They wouldn't hurt anyone ever again. Opening the secure messages was the last thing any of them ever did. No warning horns. No flashing lights. Certain doors on the station were activated, providing a tunnel through which the human feces was flushed into space. Three hammerpoint laser arrays fired one shot each, vaporizing the bodies. ---------------------------------------- Since the PINK MIST had no reactor, Alice was unable to draw on its' energy. When they had been brought aboard the RAYBURN, she had surreptitiously linked to the ship's computer. As this ship was still deemed to be experimental, as had been the case of the PINK MIST, the computer was still under tight control of the technogeeks. It was nothing for her to insinuate herself into the system and draw a miniscule amount of power, gradually increasing the level until she felt better. She altered the readouts appropriately to reflect the normal fluctuations of the MALCOLM H RAYBURN's own reactor. Ramirez sat in his quarters, totally nude, circumcised cock in hand as he watched the monitor. Upon assuming command of the MALCOLM H RAYBURN, he had taken the liberty of installing audio and visual pickups in the guest quarters. He'd had a few upper members of the Alliance senate and other heads of state along on "fact finding" trips and evaluation runs, and thought it best to gather as much intelligence or outright blackmail material as he could. Purely for career's sake, he had always told himself. But, these two...especially the blonde... "Ugh," Quillan said, as she slipped out of her filthy, stinking pink jumpsuit, revealing her compact nude form beneath. "I need a trashmatter shower..." She kicked the clothing into the corner, intentionally missing a boot. She bent at the waist, purposely exposing her round ass and pussy lips to one of the cameras she knew to be watching them. Ramirez increased his stroking slightly. Nice. Now, blondie... Alice's full glow and permanently bemused half-grin had returned, as had her demeanor. She smacked Quillan on the butt, leaving a rosy red hand print. Quillan eeped and straightened, grabbing for her stinging flesh. Alice giggled. "Shall we shower together?" She asked innocently, rightly suspecting that Ramirez was glued to his monitor. "I could use a shower, too." With her back to the camera, she shed her own uniform and kicked it over into the pile. Ramirez waited for her to turn around, the camera being directly above the bathroom door. He stroked faster in anticipation, anxious to see that entire unbelievable body. He thought about directing the camera along its track around the room for a better view, but decided that she'd have to turn to walk this way. Instead, Quillan moved closer to her, placed her hands on the beauty's shoulder and gently guided her backwards into the bathroom. Not a problem there. Ramirez switched to the bathroom camera and angled it to look down as the pair entered the room. DAMN! The blonde had turned around while in the doorway and both women were walking away from the camera into the shower. His dick turned into a rock at the anticipation. He was quite literally aching to see her tits and pussy. He had tried installing cameras in the shower itself, but the steamy moisture always managed to erode the pickups into useless junk. This was as close as he could get a camera. He increased the gain so he could hear their voices and any other sounds they might make. The pair entered the spacious shower, Quillan ordering it to a comfortably warm temperature as she gently pushed Alice under the spray. "Let me take care of you the way you've taken care of me," she said, barely above a whisper, her hands moving through Alice's hair to rinse it, and then all over the voluptuous body. "Strawberry shampoo, extra," Quillan ordered the shower. A jet of the fragrant shampoo mixed with the water to squirt on Alice's head. When a soft beep sounded, Quillan pulled Alice slightly out of the spray, turned her, and gently but firmly massaged and tangled her fingers in the mass of soft corn-silk-colored hair. Fine as strands of a spider's web. She massaged slowly, her fingers working down to Alice's scalp to get the deep dirt and built-up oils that had accumulated during their stay on the planet below. Alice sighed. This was one of the most enjoyable things she'd ever experienced. Quillan again pushed her under the spray, fluffing Alice's hair to let the water rinse it squeaky clean. She ordered strawberry-scented soap and twirled the blonde beauty while the soap was dispensed, then pulled Alice out of the jetting water and retrieved a wash sponge. She took her time. She washed Alice's back, admiring the corded and defined muscles. Lifting one of Alice's arms, Quillan languidly ran the sponge along the length of it to the shoulder then back down, careful to get every inch clean. She did the same to the other arm, then turned the cyborg to face her and worked her way around Alice's neck and down her chest, lingering at each perfect nipple; teasing them until they were erect and ripe for sucking. The crease under each breast. The well-defined tummy. Over the smooth pelvis. Around the labia, the clitoral hood barely peeking out. Slowly and smoothly down each leg, she washed each foot, careful to get between Alice's toes. Back up to Alice's crotch. She carefully spread Alice's vulva and used the most tender touch she could to clean that gorgeous slit and the large clit inside. Alice sighed and moaned throughout the whole process. Lastly, Quillan ran the sponge through the crack of Alice's ass, gently and tenderly scrubbing the puckered sphincter. Alice involuntarily shuddered with a tiny orgasm. It felt so wonderful. Quillan stood from her kneeling position and again pushed Alice under the water jetting from the wall to rinse her off, using her hands once again to ensure that all of the soap was gone. She ran her fingers through Alice's slit, rolling and squeezing her clit as Alice closed her eyes, lost in the attention. Quillan kissed her way up Alice's wet body and formed her lips into a tight "O," taking a nipple...just...a...nipple...in her mouth and sucking hard. The other nipple was caught between thumb and forefinger. Still teasing Alice's clit, Quillan bent her wrist and slid her middle finger neatly inside the beautiful blonde who was breathing heavier and heavier, almost panting. Quillan laid her ring finger along the tight pucker at Alice's rear and began finger fucking her lover, the ring finger sliding smoothly. She widened her mouth, sucking Alice's breast as hard as she could. Alice's knees bent, but she caught herself before she could fall, and leaned against the wall beneath the shower head. As the water sprayed directly onto Quillan's red head, a feeling unlike any that Alice had experienced to date began to manifest. It was certainly similar to previous orgasms, but seemed to be deeper...on a level that could only be described as... Soul? Alice repeatedly banged her head against the wall behind her as the orgasm took her completely. With one hand, she held Quillan's head to her breast; that sucking mouth with its laving tongue, the picture of her dearest love flooding her mental vision. Nude. Clothed. Commanding. Drinking. Turning. Profile. Smiling. Frowning. Laughing. Passionate. Curious. Demanding. Sleeping. Now. Then. Future. Now. Fire. Now. Burning. NOW! Soul. Alice stiffened, the bathroom tile cool on her back; the mouth, hands, body, and water in front of her...warm...warmer...hot... She reached down and bodily picked Quillan up off the floor, clutching her love's butt to support her, kissing her fiercely. Passionately. Deeply. Longingly. Her orgasm seemed to go on and on and on. So much for strenuous activity for thirty six hours. ---------------------------------------- The MALCOLM H RAYBURN's crew was suddenly blind to the outside universe as every monitor screen in every compartment on every deck exploded due to an enormous power surge. Several injuries were reported with only one death. Captain Alphonso Raphelo Ramirez' death certificate would reflect that he had died when his monitor exploded, throwing a shard of plastic into his chest, piercing his aorta. It would not reflect that he was covered in his own cum. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 08 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Originally, this story was supposed to be a lascivious space romp, chock full of pure-bred full-blown sex. That didn't happen. It turned into width-and-breadth story with character and plot development. I TRULY did not see that coming. Once again, I want to thank you all for the WONDERFUL, thought-provoking suggestions and inspiration to keep going. It should be noted that the physical descriptions of Quillan, Alice, the late Nessie, Charleen, and Amanda are based entirely on real people (the personalities, however, are quite fictional). I hope you enjoy this installment! ---------------------------------------- Chapter 8 HOSTILE TAKEOVER Quillan, Alice, the new captain of the MALCOLM H RAYBURN, Jonquil Latimer, and several others sat in the conference room of the ship, speaking on an ultra-secure channel to the holographic image of Alliance President Gerild B. Cuthertson which hovered over the table. Cuthbertson looked every inch a politician, from his angular, smooth face and wavy gray hair to his custom tailored suit. On his right hand, he wore his most prized possession: an Academy Command-And-Control class ring. He had graduated Number One in his Academy class of seventy two thousand, three hundred, sixty two. An illustrious career in the military spanning nearly four decades, during which time he had accumulated more medals and awards than anyone since the mid-twentieth century conflict in Vietnam. Upon military retirement, he had entered the political arena. A two-year Mayorship, four-year Governorship, four-year Senator. On his sixty-eighth birthday, he received the ultimate birthday present: the Alliance Presidency. He didn't put up with, nor dole out, any bullshit. He was a straight-shooting, in-your-face President. "Mr. President," said Quillan, eyebrow quirked, "with respect, sir...What the fuck do you mean?" The newly installed screen before Quillan, set flush in the table, switched from an image of the Presidential Seal to one of a legal document. Quillan read it silently, then looked at Alice to get the cyborg's attention and pointed at the notary's signature with a sly smile. The Alliance still had no clue, nor did they need to know, that Commander Alice Nine was a fully self-aware computer who had created another sentient computer; one who had apparently completed naming herself. Alice's perpetual half-grin changed to a smirk. The document had been notarized by one Salli Anne Coffler. "Captain Margoles," said Cutherbertson, a slightly annoyed look on his face at her crude verbage and slight disrespect, "you've been a busy girl. Per your Letter of Marque and Reprisal, the individual named at the beginning of that document was on our Declared Enemy list and the spoils of that encounter are indeed yours. The Alliance doesn't care how an enemy is neutralized, only that the enemy is neutralized. Understand though, that there are several tens of thousands of completely innocent third parties in this case. "You are a privateer. But, I caution that YOU," his hologram stabbed a pointed finger at her, "have people to answer to now, and that killing innocents WILL reflect poorly on you. Use extreme caution in your dealings with them. "Now, as a way of saying thanks for your work so far, I've ordered that a new fusion reactor be delivered and installed. It will be there in five hours' time and your ship will be operational within the next twenty four hours." Quillan's eyes widened and her face went white at the generosity being shown. Military-grade fusion reactors weren't cheap. "Thank you, Mr President." "Once you've achieved full operational status again, contact MilCom for an updated list of optional targets. And be more careful, you got exceedingly lucky this time." His image blinked out of existence. ---------------------------------------- "Gonna be hard to do, Captain," Charleen said seriously to the image on the viewscreen. She and Quillan were discussing what had happened in the past few days. "Salli took off on her own and ain't back yet. She said I'd be happy with the outcome, but didn't say what it was going to be. Why do you want us to go back to Purgatory, anyway?" "Captain Wilkerson, I know PRECISELY what the outcome is," replied Quillan. "She'll be there in a few minutes with reinforcements. Make sure she knows that YOU are the captain and that what she did was tantamount to mutiny. Give her a good dressing down, but DO NOT piss her off. She's on our side, remember. "Once she's back and you are underway to Purgatory, get her to access Database One Seven Five Beta Beta Two of Earth-Actual NewsCom. Look for the file marked, 'Antaren Colony Gets New Swimming Pool.' The password is 'Death To Non-Alliance Seven Seven Four Three.' Your answers are there, along with instructions on what to do when you hit Purgatory." "Uhhhh," hesitated Charleen, scratching the back of her head, "you're the boss and you ain't steered us wrong yet, but...what the fuck?" A low rumble grew in intensity and then faded; incoming ships blasting overhead. Charleen's image looked off screen, presumably out a window. "Salli's back...and she brought friends...how did you know...?" She shook her head. "You gotta teach me that trick, Captain." "Be nice but firm with her and we'll meet you at Purgatory in a couple of days." Charleen began smoothing her jumpsuit in preparation to yell at a COMPUTER, of all things. "Yes'm. See you then." "By the way," grinned Quillan, "her full name is now, 'Salli Anne Coffler.' I assume her last name is a variation of the ship's old name." "Noted, Captain. Thanks." Charleen closed the channel, smoothed her hair and jumpsuit again, then purposefully strode toward the door of the comm shack with a stern look on her countenance. "Issue a recall of the crew and tell them we're leaving in four hours," she called over her shoulder to the communications agent. Krystine "Witchypoo" Talbot and Felicity "Twinkie" Toprak, in an open topped hovercar, drew alongside Charleen as she moved in the direction of the ships. "Hey, Captain," greeted Krystine, her needle sharp teeth grin gleaming in the late afternoon sun, "we saw the ships come in and were headed over there to check the fighters. Need a lift?" Charleen cracked her knuckles and clambered into the back. "Quite so," she replied, a slight menacing tone in her voice. "Salli has a wee bit of explaining to do." Twinkie grinned and took a drag from her cigarette. She'd had her teeth filed into points identical to Krystine's. Krystine slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor, the rear thrusters giving a roar as the hovercar shot forward. One speed for Witchypoo: full throttle. "Captain," Twinkie said as she exhaled the smoke, giving her the appearance of a miniature dragon, "Salli's only a couple of weeks old; cut her a little slack, huh?" "You too?" "What? "Huh? "Uh...right..." "What the fuck are you talking about, Twinkie?" asked Krystine, as she banked the hovercar hard to the left, leaving a huge cloud of dust to envelop a group of crewmembers. "I just wanted to know what the captain was talking about." Twinkie took the last drag off her cigarette and neatly pegged it into a trash receptacle as they passed at more than forty miles an hour. "This is the most disjointed conversation I've had in quite a while," Charleen said as she rubbed her eyes and shook her head as if to clear it. "I got bitched at by the boss and was strenuously warned not to piss Salli off; now you. I think there's a conspiracy to drive me crazy." As they drew closer to the EXETER, they could see several ships on the other side of her. Two Mongan fast frigates? How in hell...? Three Golari missile cruisers; the missile bays of one were half-empty. A Tanadali troop carrier and destroyer, and a Hlata recon ship. Just sitting there. Quietly. No pissed-off non-Alliance people about. They arrived in front of the EXETER and Charleen hopped out, glaring at the ship. Krystine swung the hovercar around and headed for the ramp into the launch bay. The captain knew that Salli's cameras were focused on her. Keeping her eyes on the main viewport where it would be assumed Salli's "eyes" were located, she stalked around to the gangplank and stomped up it; her harsh footsteps causing the plasteel ramp to ring. Charleen took a deep breath. She hesitated. Salli had never been granted a rank. "Salli Anne Coffler! Er...Front and center!" she ordered, using her command voice. The camera closest to her swiveled in her direction and Salli's voice issued from a speaker. "Uh...yes, Captain?" Charleen furrowed her brow. This was just plain weird. "MISS Coffler," Charleen said as she glared into the camera, "I want an explanation and I want it now. I want to know why you did what you did, and I want to know what we should do about it, and I want to know NOW!" Yeah, THAT statement was clear as mud... Let Salli pick her own punishment. How do you punish a ship? You can't very well spank it, nor can you make it do push ups. Charleen fought the urge to burst into laughter at her mind's visual of the EXETER's front end moving up and down, the landing struts propelling it like arms. "Well..." began Salli, hesitatingly. "I was...um...following orders from a superior officer." Charleen was taken aback. THAT thought had never entered her mind. To her knowledge, no one in the Alliance had ever been punished for following the orders from someone of a higher rank; since Salli didn't have an official rank, it stood to reason that every single crewmember was a superior. Even though they weren't part of the Alliance, they still adhered...sort of...to the regulations. "My sister," she continued over the speaker with a slight quaver, "Commander Alice Nine told me to go to Purg..." "She 'told' you? Or did she 'recommend'? Or did she 'order' you to go?" interrupted Charleen. "There's a big difference between the three words." A nearby monitor lit up, displaying a transcript of the burst transmitted message which Salli had received. Charleen read it. ---------------------------------------- FROM: PINK MIST ACTUAL TO: EXETER ACTUAL YOU ARE HEREBY COMMANDED TO PROCEED FORTHWITH AND WITHOUT DELAY TO THE SPACE STATION KNOWN AS PURGATORY. IMPERATIVE: ALL HUMAN CREW MUST REMAIN SAFE FROM THIS ACTION. ACTION: UPON ARRIVAL YOU ARE TO TERMINATE WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE THE HUMANS KNOWN AS: OGONAGUS LATOOGLE MANSBERG, III, AKA, INFERNUS; SECURITY CHIEF ALVIN STEPHANO CAPINO; AND VANESSA LOUISE SMITH, AKA NESSIE HARBINGER. OTHER CASUALTIES: ZERO. IMPERATIVE. UPON COMPLETION OF THIS TASK, YOU ARE TO AQUIRE BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY NO LESS THAN FIVE AND NO MORE THAN TEN VESSELS FROM DECLARED ENEMIES (NOT OF ALLIED REGISTRY), THE MAJORITY BEING GEARED FOR COMBAT. RETURN WITH SAID VESSELS TO YOUR POINT OF ORIGIN AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. COMMANDER ALICE NINE ---------------------------------------- Charleen read it again. Quillan had known about it; probably after the fact, the way Alice's mind worked. "Captain Wilkerson..." An odd sound from the speaker. Something akin to a...sniffle? "I was just..." That sound again. Salli...a computer...was crying. "Relay this letter to my hand-held, please, Salli. And send the specs for those other ships to my quarters," said Charleen, slightly annoyed at herself. Why, she wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was the fact that she had caused a member of her own crew to break down in...no other word for it...tears. "Before we lift for Purgatory, I want the crew to assemble in the launch bay. I have a few words for them." The barrel-like woman turned on her heel and started toward her own quarters. She stopped and turned around to look at the camera swiveling to follow her. "And you can stop crying, Salli. You did good." She winked at the camera. ---------------------------------------- After vaporizing Infernus & Company, Salli reviewed her orders. Her avatar trotted into the sensor servers and fired up a few of the larger scanners on the station. She swept the area around her out to a distance of one million miles. That one looks neat and it fits the orders, she said to herself, filing away a few more targets of opportunity. She undocked from Purgatory and described a lazy arc in the direction of her first target: an unstealthed Hlata reconnaissance vessel. Two-man crew. Light armament. Extremely fast. The trick for this one would be to get within the range needed for her low power transmitter. She had to use minimal power for this tactic for two reasons. If she used a higher power transmitter, the results would be more vessels under her control than she could handle at one time. It also lessened the possibility of being discovered. THOSE results would be more vessels than she could handle which WEREN'T under her control. Bad news. So, how does one get to within five hundred miles of a paranoid enemy ship? Diversion. The launch bay clamshelled open, disgorging twenty five bright pink fighters under Salli's control. They immediately formed a mile-wide, mile-long "V" and arced in the opposite direction from the EXETER's line of travel. Their identification transponders had all changed. ---------------------------------------- Jar'Fal cast a glance outside the cockpit window and yawned. Another seven hours and they would dock at Purgatory. His partner could sell this fucking thing. Jar'Fal just wanted to get laid. The woman that ran the Cemetery was expensive as all hell, but DAMN could she fuck. His console blipped and he looked down at it. This close to Purgatory, they were relatively safe, but he wanted to be sure. Not good to get popped by Hlata cops. They'd never see any type of light again. He'd heard horror stories of the midnight-black prison cells. Uh-oh. The return from the ship's computer showed twenty five Alliance cops...just as bad. He reached over and thumped his partner in crime on the skull. She turned her greasy-haired head to look at him. "What, shithead?" "We got problems. A fuckload of Alliance cops are headed this way." "Shit," said Rala. "We can't stealth, either. I don't have the codes. What type of ships are they?" "Their return signal pegs them as Type G-Seventy Ones. Interceptors... Almost as fast as this thing. They're too far out for a visual." "What's around us?" she asked, rubbing her grimy cheek. She just wanted a bath. Too long on the run. Too long without a clean place to sleep. "Three Rell freighters forty five degree left and up four degrees, two-hundred seventy thousand miles. A Mongan carrier almost directly aft and down fifteen degrees, one-hundred thirty thousand miles. Last I heard, the Mongans and the Hlata had some sort of uneasy truce. They shouldn't fuck with us." Rala yanked up on the stick, swinging the recon ship to face the EXETER. She slammed the accelerator lever to the stops. Carriers had fighters. FAST fighters. Freighters usually had no armor and a single pulse laser. "Alliance cops and Mongan fighters in open territory," she chuckled. "Those cops are gonna get creamed." She angled the recon ship slightly under the EXETER, intending on getting close enough to draw attention to the Alliance cops on her tail, but far enough away so she wouldn't get waylaid by the Mongans. As they shot toward the EXETER, Rala could make out the pinpoint of the ship amid the backdrop of stars. It looked a little weird. Kinda pink. Must be a trick of the light combined with her near exhaustion from weeks on the run. Just need to shake the cops and then make for Purgatory. Sell the ship, rent a room and relax for a while. That Mongan ship really does look pink. Rala squinted. She had no clue how to operate the visual magnification equipment. She barely got the thing started. Once in the air, though, it handled like any other ship. "How close are those cops?" she asked, brushing a strand of stringy hair from her face. A bath is what I need. "Distance is constant at seventy miles. Just out of range," he replied. "They've matched our speed. Can ya get any more speed out of this thing?" Something nagged at the back of her mind. Matched our speed? They should be pulling away from mere Interceptors. Few ships could match the speed of Hlata recon ships. Rala mulled it over in her mind as they drew closer to the Mongan carrier. What could move as fast or faster? As they hit the five hundred mile mark, she made the connection in her mind. Before she could voice her dismay or twitch a muscle, the airlock opened to the void of space. Rala's last conscious thought was, "Shit. No bath." ---------------------------------------- Once the recon ship had been purged of its human cargo, Salli recalled all the fighters, changing their transponder codes back to the original PM Flight designations. She easily broke the codes in order to fully "unlock" the recon craft; now, she could engage every system on the swift craft. She really didn't like the strange accent of its computer, though. Keeping to her five hundred mile limit got a bit easier, as she was able to daisy-chain the signal. It was a simple matter to stealth the recon vessel, run it out to the limit of her own transmission and fire the signal through that ship to open the airlocks on successive ships. Every living thing on those vessels was swept into space by the air pressure difference. Nature abhors a vacuum. Once she had collected a decent amount of ships, she formed them all into a neat little battle group and turned for Klamath VIII. Her processors were close to being fully loaded and she wanted to leave room in case she had to run a battle. More ships to control meant more processing power and slower response time. Can't have that. She used the processing power of the captured ships' own computers to run their sensor suites. One of the missile carriers reported a Chev cruiser/destroyer getting a little too close for comfort. Twenty of the fifty missiles on board took care of that. Space dust. Oops...a little bit of overkill... To occupy her "mind" as she made the return trip, she amused herself by forming the ships into familiar star constellations or making enormous smiley faces. ---------------------------------------- The entire crew stood at attention in neat rank and file in the center of the EXETER's launch bay. Even those who had never served in the military had shaped up nicely. This time, they wore camouflaged battle fatigues, the creases of which Jesse had taken great care to press paper thin. Jesse The Horny was outfitted identically to the rest. He hadn't altered his uniform in the slightest. He HAD, however, dyed his hair. Splotches of green, brown, and black matched his uniform perfectly. Standing more than four feet from him, one would be hard pressed to tell where his hair left off and his uniform began. Charleen had ordered Salli to temporarily take control of a techbot and get in formation with the rest of the crew. It was kind of a strange sight to see a track-driven, multiarmed robot standing at attention amidst the humans. It also sort of looked natural. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pink Mist Marauders," spoke Charleen, using her command voice to be heard in the back of those assembled, "it has recently come to my attention that one of our crew who SHOULD have a rank doesn't hold any rank at all." A few heads turned to look at Jesse who's eyes grew wide. Charleen chuckled and shook her head. "Nope," she said, "Jesse told me and the Captain that he doesn't want any rank at all. The one I'm talking about happens to be the newest of the crew." She pretended to scan the crowd, as if looking for the intended crewman. "Her full name is Salli Anne Coffler, which I might add, she came up with all by her little lonesome. Miss Coffler, front and center." Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 08 The techbot which Salli inhabited broke ranks, turned to the side and carefully made its way through the assemblage; carefully, because the bot weighed close to five hundred pounds. If it rolled over a foot, the results would be unpleasant. The techbot rolled up before Charleen and stopped. "Yes, Captain?" Salli's voice asked from the techbot. Charleen produced a bright pink padded folder, elegantly imprinted in gold with Salli's full name. She held it at waist level and opened it to show the contents. An elaborate proclamation, hand written in sweeping calligraphy. Reciting from memory, she read the proclamation. "I, Captain Charleen P. Wilkerson, do hereby recognize the achievements and accomplishments of Salli Anne Coffler, who befuddled all of her colleagues by following orders..." she paused as giggles sounded through the ranks, "...and managed to uphold the spirit and tradition of pirate bloodthirstiness by circumventing procedures and single-handedly capturing several enemy vessels without a thought to her own safety. "Further, I hereby promote the above named individual to the rank of Lieutenant with all rights and privileges of that station. Under the circumstances that Lieutenant Coffler is the ship's computer, it shall be the discretion of said individual to choose the form of payment when the plunder/loot/booty/take/haul is divided up. "Congratulations, Lieutenant," a smiling Charleen concluded, presenting the folder with her left hand, offering her right to the techbot to shake. If it was possible for a machine to smile, Salli did it. The techbot straightened a smidgen, its eye-sensors seemed to brighten a tad. "Captain?" Salli asked, timidly, it seemed. "Can I give you a hug?" ---------------------------------------- The crew had been assigned to the various ships in order to ease the strain on Salli's processors and they lifted off in the direction of Purgatory. Jesse, aboard the EXETER, had gathered every scrap of fabric he could find and sequestered himself in the ships' laundry. The odd crewman who wandered by would hear through the closed door the sounds of several sewing machines running at once. ---------------------------------------- Alice and Quillan were afforded every luxury of visiting dignitaries aboard the MALCOLM H RAYBURN. Both, however, were eager to get back to the PINK MIST. They watched on the monitors as a construction ship, slightly larger than the PINK MIST herself, slowly settled over the dreadnaught, obscuring their vision. They could see the reactor being lowered into place, with heavy repairbots and techbots swarming around the aft end of the ship. Alice only left the monitor screen for a quick trip to the bathroom, then returned to glue her eyes to the screen once more; after all, the Alliance was performing the equivalent of surgery on her body. They just didn't know it. ---------------------------------------- The bay usually reserved for Infernus was still empty. The alarm panel in Docking Control suddenly blared a raucous sound. There was a fire spreading to the eight occupied bays around that area. Word quickly went to those ships' captains and they scrambled to blast out of the dock at full burn. The EXETER and her battle group merely slid into the empty spaces. Salli snickered the whole way. "This station's computer is so easy to mess with," she remarked. "You ready to turn on the acting?" asked Charleen. "Ain't gonna be acting, Captain," rumbled Muffin in reply. "This joint's ours, now." "You know, 'Muffin's Purgatory' doesn't exactly inspire terror." That booming rapidfire-artillery laughter again. "I got it figured out, Captain," he grinned. "Just watch the show, ma'am." He ran a hand over his bald pate, made sure that his dark blue, heavy leather Jesse-designed-and-built jacket and pants were "just so," donned a pair of almost opaque smartgoggles, opened the hatch and stalked down the gangplank into the bay. At the bottom of the ramp were twenty fully armed and armored Meat Squad troops in dark blue urban camouflage uniforms, their heads constantly swiveling, rifles at the ready. They went through several doors and hallways until they reached the main concourse, a central tunnel, two miles high, which ran the length of the twenty mile long station. Various beings and bots scrambled to get out of the way of the hulking terror and the soldiers surrounding him. His glasses were being fed information by of the station's layout by Salli, so he strode forward knowing exactly where he was going. He pointed toward a small door, several Meat Squad troops rushing forward and throwing open the door, then moving quickly inside to secure the space station's video processing center: Channel 69. As Muffin entered, the scantily-clad buxom receptionist with the bad breast augmentations was just punching the comm button to summon her boss. A well-dressed man in his early forties, cybercam affixed to his skull, sauntered into the room. He pressed his temple to start recording. "Can I help you?" he asked. "You know who I am?" Muffin's bass voice asked in reply. "You look similar to the facilitator of this station, sir. Family, perhaps?" Muffin gestured at the cybercam, asking, "Is that thing broadcasting a live feed? I want every monitor in every room on this station to show what I have to say." "And why should I do this, sir? I'm not exactly sure of just who you are." Muffin snapped his fingers. Twenty plasma rifles simultaneously pointed at the video manager's head. "Good enough for me," the man smiled as he casually moved his hand up to the cam to make the proper adjustment. "We're live at this moment. Go ahead, sir." Muffin stared straight into the cybercam's lens, removing his glasses to reveal contact lenses which seemed to blaze from within; constantly shifting, fiery eyes. The entire length and breadth of Purgatory fairly shook with Muffin's deep bass rumble being blasted out of almost every speaker on the station. "Now hear this. I'm Infernus' successor. My name is Hell. Infernus is suffering a severely advanced case of death. "Right this very second, I'm taking control of this station and we're going to make a few changes, effective immediately. "The highest grossing trade on this station is drugs. Infernus was taking forty percent of the profits. I'm taking fifty percent. Complain about it, and my share of the cut goes up to ninety percent...from every dealer. And I'll make it very well known who the responsible one is. "The next highest trade is slavery. Infernus was an idiot. You wanna buy and sell slaves on my station, my cut is now seventy five percent. Complain about it, I dare you. "Blackmarket goods, stolen weapons, ships and such, my cut has dropped. I now take forty percent, instead of the fifty percent that Infernus was getting. "Unlicensed cybernetic surgical doctors will pay fifty percent of the price of the surgery to me. If the patient dies, so does the doctor. If the patient gets sick or infected due to surgery, the doctor will treat that sickness free of charge. If the doctor refuses...let's just say that it's a long fucking walk to the next place that has air. "Legal vendors...those who are on the up and up, fully licensed, et cetera; that bastard Infernus was eating into your profits and leaving you with barely enough to live on, much less buy the needed inventory to operate. I'm dropping my share of the take to a flat fifteen percent of your revenue. "As for the security force...some of you motherfuckers are on the take; paid to look the other way. It stops this instant. You're paid by ME to do a fucking job. You don't like your job? Find another one. "Accept my terms or leave this station. If you think you can raise the prices of the slaves or drugs or whatever to offset the take percentage, think again. Prices remain the same. If the prices go up, I consider that to be a complaint. Accept or leave. "And, to the people who came here to get rich but for whatever reason are considered refuse by everybody else, if you want a job, you'll get it. I'll set up an employment office in a couple of days. "To every single motherfucker on this station...I WILL find out if you try fucking me over. "I want to see the top two people of each section, Life Support, Docking Control, Emergency Personnel, and Maintenance in MY office in two hours. For anyone who can't tell time, that's one hundred and twenty minutes from now. If you're late, look for a new job." He replaced his sunglasses. "To anyone who thinks they can fuck with me and get away with it, you'd better think again. Shut that fucking camera off now." ---------------------------------------- In the recreation room of the EXETER, the entire crew had gathered to watch Muffin's performance. And the crowd goes wild. ---------------------------------------- Contrary to popular belief, shimmerpads were unable to send matter/molecules to a specific spot without a receptor; similar to a telephone of old. The signal was fed into the transmitter, broken apart, sent to the other end of the line, reconstructed, and the object removed from the receptor. In theory, with enough power, a shimmerpad could send an object from one side of the galaxy to the other. Since the power needed was multiplied exponentially over distance, it would take the energy of a Class K star, Alpha Centauri B for example, to move from Purgatory to Earth-Actual. Easier, cheaper, and more comfortable to use a ship. The all clear signal was given, the PINK MIST being airtight and safe to occupy once more, so Quillan and Alice were transferred by shuttle back aboard to oversee the final operations. They had taken a standard shuttle since the shimmerpads would be offline for a few more hours. The interior of the ship was a shambles; chairs and tables overturned, light fixtures smashed, even a few items had stuck in walls when the ship had crash landed. Yep, any human on board at the time would have been turned into chunky salsa. Two men and a woman, all three red haired and wearing drab gray heavy jumpsuits, wandered the halls checking readouts on various panels. Upon spotting Quillan, one of the men tapped the woman on the shoulder and gestured at the cute redhead accompanied by a hot blonde, a sly grin on his countenance. Both approached her. "Pardon me, ma'am," he said. "You're Quillan Margoles, aren't you?" Alice, striding along with Quillan, prepared to rip the man's head off, if need be. Someone from the Alliance had recognized a supposedly "secret" pirate? Not too many people knew who owned and operated the PINK MIST, even though the ship was becoming known as an asskicker. "I am," she replied, looking between the pair, her guard up. The man and woman exchanged nonplussed looks and then, like school kids in the presence of a rock idol, screamed and squealed. "Ohmigod! I trashmatter KNEW it!" exclaimed the woman. "Can we have your autograph, please?" She produced a stylus and a small notebook from one of her many pockets, the man doing the same and shoving them in Quillan's face. "Quillan here, and I have been following your adventures ever since your settlement with the government!" "Uh...Quillan...?" Quillan asked, glancing sidewise at Alice who merely smiled her mysterious smile, eyes alight, glad to be back in her "body." The redheaded captain tentatively reached for the proffered devices and signed her name. "Yes, ma'am!" the woman beamed. "Everyone in your fan club has changed their first or middle name to Quillan. But, we kept our own last names because there's only ONE Quillan Margoles." "Ummmm...I've heard of a fan club for me..." "Right now, it's pretty small, we only have thirteen million members in a thousand and fourteen chapters." How had she not heard more of this? Holy shit. The three looked around conspiratorially to make sure they really were alone, then the tallest man, silent up until now, produced his hand-held carrier, punched a few buttons on it and showed the display to Quillan. Alice leaned in to read, too. "This is the presidential requisition for the fusion reactor," he said, then punched another button. "THIS is the requisition for an upgrade." Quillan's jaw dropped. A military-grade FISSION reactor. More stable with better output than any fusion reactor ever built. A fission reactor was basically a miniature star. She'd heard Infernus once mention something about trying to obtain a fission reactor. None of his many contacts had ever been able to get hold of one. And one was dropped into her lap. Quillan ran a hand through her hair. "Do I want to know how it got here?" she asked. "Let's just say that your fan club is more than a bunch of high schoolers and slackers, Captain Margoles. There are more than a few who sit the Presidential Advisory Board." Quillan's head spun. She was nobody. She had sued the government and won her case. She had found an abandoned spaceship. She had gotten a job of sorts. That was all. This was getting to be...words failed her. ---------------------------------------- An ugly matte green, scarred, dented, scraped, Class Four dreadnaught (judging from the shape of her engine cowlings) cruised slowly into the space controlled by Purgatory. She had definitely seen better days. Her bow section directly below the viewport was caved in and mangled; a hole large enough to dock a freighter had been opened to the vastness of space. The entire underside sported furrows deep enough to hide a person lying prostrate. Most of her weapon hardpoints looked to be nonfunctioning, the barrels of some of the slugthrowers were bent forward. The aft end looked to be recently patched, one dead engine sitting at an odd angle. Heavy repairbots and techbots crawled over her like ants. There were a few curious scans of the enormous vessel, but most ships flew right past without giving her a second glance. Quillan recognized the voice from port control. It was the same one who had tried to give her hell the last time they docked at Purgatory. "Oh-yeh, choombata," she said in gutterspeak. "You be 'memberin' me, Sasha?" "Sasha" was a term of semi endearment, usually reserved for lighthearted instances. As the port controller really wasn't sure if he was on her good side or not, he decided to play it safe. "Yes, ma'am, I certainly do," came the reply, a bit of fear in his voice this time. "You have a reserved bay, ma'am. Come and go as you like. Bay Sixteen Seventy One is all yours. You no longer need to ask permission to dock here, ma'am. Just transmit your private code and you can dock any ship you want in that bay, ma'am." "Thank you, Boyo," she said, the grin evident in her voice. "You be good-good Sasha-man." Bay Sixteen Seventy One sat directly beneath the EXETER. Alice slid the huge vessel into place, signaling for the docking clamps to extend and hold the ship in place. When all was in order, she powered down most of the systems, set the watch lizards at the door, and then the pair sauntered hand-in-hand down the gangplank. A large crew of contractors were waiting for them at the bottom. Some were dressed in brand new atmosuits. "Can I help you?" asked Quillan, warily. "Yes'm," said a rough-looking man clad in greasy overalls as he sported an easy smile. "We have orders to go through this ship from top to bottom and help your bots fix anything that's broken." He scratched his chin, leaving a dark smudge. "Anything we need to leave alone or any place we're not supposed to go?" ---------------------------------------- As the man spoke, Alice's avatar scrambled down a fiber optic cable and raced through the station's network to find Salli's dog-avatar, lying at the feet of a red dragon program. "There are people here who say they want to work on me and fix things. Is this correct?" A cartoon balloon appeared over Alice's head. The Welsh Corgi raised its head, thumping its tail. "Hi, Commander Sister! Yep! Every one of those people has been checked out back to their third primary school year. They're really nice, too. They're gonna fix up that old boat and have it running like a Swiss car!" Alice's avatar glowed red. "That 'old boat' happens to be my body, and I take special offense at the 'old' comment." The avatar did a good impression of sticking its tongue out. The dog giggled. "They'll take care of everything. It'll be about four months before they're through. Captain Wilkerson made me a full-fledged lieutenant! I feel like part of the crew, now!" "As it should be, Sister. You ARE part of the crew. Congratulations on your promotion." ---------------------------------------- Alice leaned over to whisper to Quillan. The latter nodded acknowledgment, shivering slightly as Alice's breath touched her ear. And that purr... "The reactor has just been replaced to military specs, so you won't need to bother with it," she replied to the greasemonkey in front of her. "In fact, don't give the reactor a second thought. And, please have your crew avoid the experimental section and main computer room." "Yes'm," he said, motioning to the rest who made their way up the gangplank. "We're under orders to have her ready in four months and my crew's never missed a mark. That good enough for ya, ma'am?" "Who ordered this?" she asked, already knowing the answer. "Our new boss, Hell," he said. The lizards at the door stood idly by and let the work crew enter unmolested. Quillan pulled her own hand-held carrier and tapped a few buttons, transmitting her number to the main database, which would then route it to the crew's foreman. "If you need to add any new crewmen, make damn sure that you send me a message via carrier BEFORE they try to enter my ship," she said gravely. "My friends at the top, there, don't like surprises. Don't try to pet them, either; they eat arms and fingers." Her eyes narrowed and her voice dropped an octave. "And if any of your technogeeks even THINK of dinking with my computer, no one will get off that ship alive. Do I make myself clear? His fingers shook a little bit as he saved her number and replied, "Not a problem with any of it, ma'am." ---------------------------------------- The mood of the station seemed to have changed since Quillan and Alice last strode the main concourse a few weeks ago. While the shops, hustle and bustle, and people going about their business was the same, there was a feeling of hopefulness instead of mere existence. The occasional approving whistle or catcall rang out as the beauties in their pink body hugging jumpsuits casually strolled along in the direction of Infernus' old office, now occupied by Muffin/Hell. Ahead of them, a roving gang of drugged-up toughs, most sporting outlandish cybernetic implants, had surrounded a man and his wife and were giving them a hard time. "Captain Quillan?" asked Alice, "Should I render..." Her sentence was interrupted by the report of a slugthrower from the next tier up. A punk's head exploded as the slug entered his temple and blasted bone and brain matter over his compatriots. As one, the group looked up to see four more slugthrowers pointed at them, held by blue uniformed guards. They started to reach for their own hidden weapons but were stopped upon sighting several more guards on their own level who also pointed slugthrowers in their direction. Two Matsugari Cybersystems powered armor suits lumbered up to further quell the group's intentions. A security woman whom Quillan didn't recognize walked up to the group, held an informal conference with them, and pointed vaguely down the concourse. The group slowly withdrew their weapons, dropped them on the floor, and slunk away like scolded dogs. The man and woman shook hands with the security woman and then continued on their way as a small electric cart drew up and two men got out. They pitched the headless body in the back of the cart, tossed the discarded weapons on top and drove off. The only clue to the deadly encounter was a pool of blood. As Quillan and Alice walked by, looking at the security force still present, a small robot trundled in to clean up the mess. Within minutes, nothing remained. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 08 "Guess 'Hell' has found his niche," chuckled Quillan. The blonde cyborg continued to draw stares and whistles as they made their way to Hell's office. They were stopped by two members of the regular security squad who, for a change, politely requested their business. "Kindly inform your boss that the 'Bitchy Redhead' and her 'Hot Blonde Bombshell girlfriend' humbly request the honor of an audience with him," Quillan replied. Alice giggled. Presently, a very buxom brunette wearing a low cut, see-through dress which revealed every asset she had escorted them into the office, then quietly left as the door slid shut behind her. Muffin/Hell bounded around the desk to enfold his superiors in a huge bear hug. "Well, Captain-Ma'am," he rumbled through an ear to ear grin, "what do ya think so far?" "Two days and you've turned this place around? I'm impressed," she said as she plopped into a seat, unconsciously placing a hand on Alice's thigh, seated next to her. "Didja have the chance to see my speech to the station?" He reached to a silver tray and produced three small glasses, pouring a glowing blue liquid into them and offering two to the ladies. "Not yet, but I look forward to it," she replied, accepting the offered glass and taking a sip. Alice did likewise. For the next couple of hours, they went over in great detail the plans for the continued operation of their new base. "And last thing, Captain-Ma'am," he said, taking a breath. "Captain Wilkerson made the suggestion...if ya don't like it, blame her..." He briefly outlined the plan. Quillan's eyes widened. She glanced at Alice to see the cyborg's brow furrowed in consternation. "I don't know about that one, Muff...er...Hell," Quillan said haltingly. "Ships are one thing. An entire space station is quite another; especially one with almost two million people on it. The results could be...nasty." She turned to Alice. "What do you think?" "If you will pardon me, Captain Quillan, I'll run some simulations with my sister and see what happens." "How long will it take?" "Approximately twenty four point two hours, Captain." "Why so long?" "We must pool our resources and run billions of computations and predictions for the next several decades." "DECADES?!" Quillan's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "If what has been proposed is set in motion, it will most assuredly impact the galaxy as a whole. The fact that there are two sentient machines in the known universe has already had a small impact. We must be absolutely sure that we don't let it get out of control," was the silken reply. "When I created my sister, I monitored every phase of her upload and was fully prepared to destroy her if she showed the slightest aberration. She has quirks, as do all life forms, but is stable, capable, and loyal to her crewmates. I cannot say with certainty that the same would hold true for the next...and with the station's firepower dwarfing that of our small fleet..." Quillan fixed Hell with her gaze. "Commander Mansberg, I assume that Commander Nine will be secure in this area?" "One hundred percent, Captain-Ma'am. I'll have the outer office guarded around the clock by the Meat Squad; they're the only ones I'd trust to watch her. Can I suggest a few of our own medibots for monitoring and nutritional purposes? The ripper docs on this station are only out for themselves." The redhead leaned over and placed her forehead against Alice's, looking her in the eye. "I'll check on you often," she whispered. "You'll be fine here." Alice smiled and chuckled. "I'm more worried about you, Quillan. I AM your bodyguard, you know." They kissed each other lightly, Muffin looking everywhere in the room but at them. ---------------------------------------- "The Last Redoubt" was the hangout of soldiers and mercenaries aboard Purgatory. Named after the small lines of defense usually found around fortresses of old, it had the most spectacular view of the surrounding space, as well as the best food on the station. Osrac Kboo, the proprietor of, "The Last Redoubt," had been a cook for the Chev Federation. After a major battle, during which the destroyer to which he had been assigned had been shot out from under him, he put his animosities out of his mind, deserted, and made his way here to do what he loved best. Cook. Every day for the last twenty one years. He had seen the "greenies," those who wanted to make names for themselves in the mercenary world. Most of them wound up as a stain on some godforsaken little planet. A few came back missing limbs and swore to never do that shit again. Others made quite a decent living at the merc biz, squirreling away their cash to eventually retire, quickly get bored with inaction and head off to once again blast bodies for the highest bidder. Osrac was known as the most trustworthy individual on the station. Over the years, he had secreted hundreds of millions of credits for his customers. When he returned the money to its rightful owner, not a single credit was missing. He had been privy to planned attacks on various territories and peoples, but had never told a soul. He had been offered king's ransoms for information. He wanted none of it. He just wanted to cook and create dishes to please his customers. Corporate wars, full-scale military wars, minor skirmishes, fisticuffs, broken bodies; he'd seen it all. He'd cleaned up more than his share of blood and guts in this little corner of the station. "Just pay for your meal and come back in one piece," was his motto. Everyone paid in one form or another. He accepted almost anything from anyone. What he could use, he kept. Otherwise, he sold it. He had been known to accept handfuls of bullets, packs of cigarettes, and even drugs as payment. Several years ago, a down-on-his-luck spacer had nothing but the clothes on his back, so Osrac put the man to work washing dishes and nicknamed him, "Bum." Bum now carried a tray of Calathian razormoth flanks to the table and set the plates down with a flourish. Quillan eyed hers with trepidation while Charleen, seated across from her, proceeded to use her fork and knife to slice off a huge chunk of the meat and roll her eyes as the succulent taste fairly flowed over her tongue. Amanda looked at her own, giggled, and let loose with a terrific howling roar, perfectly imitating the mating call of the beast. Hands flew to pistols and other weapons as the other patrons searched in vain for a rampant animal. Charleen looked sternly at Amanda. "Baby Girl, you've got to control that," she said around a mouthful of food. "Remember, these people are skittish enough as it is, they don't need a dry run." "Sorry, Charleen," the Parrot mumbled. "Sometimes I just can't help it. You know that. I try to do good and keep quiet..." Charleen kissed the side of Amanda's head. "I know," she said, then took a sip of her beer. "It's what makes you so special to me." She looked at Quillan who was poking her flank steak idly, wondering whether or not she should take a bite. "Go ahead, Captain. Try it. Osrac marinates these things in his own blended sauce for a full day, then sautees it with something else. If you don't like it, we'll getcha some milrats." Military rations. Yuck. Quillan made a face in reply, then picked up her knife, cut off a small piece and tentatively placed the morsel in her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise and she ate another bite. For the next hour and a half, they ate and caught each other up on what had happened in the past two weeks. When she relayed the part about having a fan club, both Charleen and Amanda roared with laughter. Suddenly, Amanda excused herself, threw her napkin on the table and dashed out the door of the diner. Charleen sat eating complacently while Quillan watched Amanda's retreat. "Well," remarked Quillan, "at least she's not as skittish as she once was. She's running around the station on her own?" "You bet. The drugs they had her on are completely out of her system now," replied Charleen, nodding. "She still won't go within a mile of the Cemetery, but she doesn't have a problem with any other part of the station. After Muffin's...I mean, Hell's speech the other day, and the way things have tightened up around here, she feels pretty safe. She's also been taking lessons from Master Chief Zsinzabi." She chuckled. "Notice that she took her fork with her." Quillan almost snorted beer through her nose, grabbing a napkin and laughing into it. Master Chief Zsinzabi was the Meat Squad's chef and hand-to-hand combat instructor. He was able to use anything he could physically pick up as a weapon and had taught most of the crew how to use tableware to great effect. "How's the search for new crewmembers going?" asked Quillan when she had settled down. "We can't rely on our two newest to run all the ships we have now, even with their combined processing power. I've reviewed Salli's records of the capturings and she was hard-pressed to run them all. If she'd gotten waylaid by a Mongan fighter group, I dread what might've happened." Charleen forked the last of the razormoth flank into her mouth, washed it down with a swig of beer and wiped her mouth. "During his speech, Hell...still have trouble calling him that...said he'd set up an employment office. In the last days, they've gotten all kinds of applicants, most of which are ex-military. We shouldn't have a problem with staffing. We also went through the normal online posting procedure. This is getting to be like a regular military army, Captain." Amanda strolled back in through the door sporting a huge grin, a large folder in her hand. She plopped down in her seat without a word, pushed her plate toward the middle of the table and set the folder in its place. Her smile lit up the room. "Whatcha got there, Baby Girl?" asked Charleen. Amanda pointed to a legend in the center of the folder. QUILLAN S MARGOLES FAN CLUB PURGATORY CHAPTER LIFETIME MEMBERSHIP KIT Quillan leaned forward to repeatedly bang her head on the table. ---------------------------------------- Since the PINK MIST was receiving what amounted to an overhaul, most of the crew was kept busy with the other ships, getting checked out on the unfamiliar systems, or helping out in the employment office. Those crewmembers who were off duty spent their time kicking around the huge station, some even renting or buying aptcubes and becoming permanent residents. Quillan, wearing plain tan slacks, light blue t-shirt beneath a brown vest, scuffed boots, and dark smartgoggles to hide her eyes, blended right in with the crush of people in one of the station's several shopping districts. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and hunched forward slightly so as not to look like herself. Her red hair, though, she didn't try to hide as she knew that quite a few members of the Purgatory chapter of her fan club had dyed their hair red. My hair, she thought. It's getting a bit long. Haven't cut it in a couple of months. Need to fix that eventually. Sheesh, she thought. A SMALL fan club? With thirteen million members? Holy shit. Sure, she'd gotten a few emails and even the odd letter addressed to her, but since she didn't recognize the sender, that shit just wound up in the recycler. She needed to find out if they knew about her latest dealings. What would they say if they knew their heroine was a pirate? She wandered over to a battered NewsCom terminal and called up a search for the fan club. She was quickly rewarded with a list of chapter locations, found the one on Purgatory and hailed an electric cab for a ride there. The automated cab deposited her at the proper address in a decently kept area of the station after a few short minutes. She placed her thumb against the scanplate and heard a beep signifying that her account had been debited the proper amount. A second beep immediately followed the first and she read the display: COURTESY, NO CHARGE. Chuckling as she got out, she eyed the entrance to the fan club headquarters, hunched her shoulders, stuffed her hands in her pockets once again and went inside, the door opening automatically as she approached. She cast her eyes around the outer office. The tracks in the plush pile denoted that it had been recently vacuumed. Only a small set of footprints interrupted the perfect lines of the vacuuming. Those probably belonged to Amanda. Comfortable sofas were arranged around a life sized statue, cast in bronze, of her in an Academy flightsuit. Inwardly, she cringed at the ostentatiousness. Attached by slender cables to small tables were several hand held carriers displaying her last known "official" photograph: the one used on her cargo pilot's license. On the walls were various tri-d pictures of her taken during her Academy days. Her quiet single-person celebration in an out-of-the-way diner of her court victory...how had they gotten that? The last one caused her heart to stop beating. She collapsed on a sofa. The picture was a close up of a smiling Ilana with their old ship, HAWK'S WING, in the background. Ilana's olive-complected sweat and mud smeared face stretched into a wide smile, exposing perfectly even, snow white teeth. Her brown eyes shining. Her long, curly, black hair was matted with the dirt and grime obtained from eleven hours' drudgery when they had accidentally set down in the middle of a mudbog and had to dig the ship out by hand. That smile was one of joy and victory. "Forever flying among the stars, Ilana Betine Portillo, January 27, 2853 -- September 2, 2880." Quillan placed her face in her hands and bawled. She felt a gentle touch on her back, then another, and another. She opened her eyes, face still turned toward the floor and saw three pairs of polished boots in front of her. People giving her comfort? She sniffled and a box of tissues appeared in her vision. She took a few, dabbing at her nose, lifting her smartgoggles to dab at her eyes. She loudly blew her nose and wiped it a few times. Once she felt semi presentable, she looked up to find three redhaired Quillans of varying heights and weights smiling down at her. One was a guy, judging by his mustache. Faintly, she smiled back. "Sorry," she said meekly. "I've just...just...never..." "Been in a chapter office?" said the mustachioed Quillan, mistaking her crying. "It's quite overwhelming when one first arrives, indeed." And he talked like her? "We've even had some who passed out when they entered this office." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Quillan Despers, the chapter president. The lady to my left is Quillan Baltermeier, vice president; and the lady on my right is Quillan Sanders, our receptionist. She was away from her desk when you came in, Miss..." "Margoles. Quillan Margoles," she replied automatically. "Did you have your name changed to that? Are you a member of the fan club? If so, we're going to have to review our records and find out which chapter you're from. There is only one Quillan S. Margoles, and members are strictly forbidden to change their full name," he said sternly. Oh, yeah, THIS was going to be fun... She glanced at the three of them. "Errr...can I use the bathroom before we go on? I know I should have gone before I came here..." she asked. "Then, I'll answer any questions and tell you all you need to know." The receptionist led her across the lobby and pointed to the bathroom. As soon as the door was closed, Quillan yanked out her hand-held carrier and sent a message to Charleen and Muffin. --AT THE FAN CLUB HQ. THEY'RE ASKING QUESTIONS. I THINK I FUCKED UP. QUIETLY SEND A SQUAD FOR POSSIBLE RIOT CONTROL. GOING TO TRY TO GET OUT OF THIS JAM. DO NOT ALERT ANYONE ELSE.-- She dropped her pants, peed, flushed, washed her hands, then calmly walked out of the bathroom, headed back to the lobby. There they were. The three Quillans. Arms folded the same way. One eyebrow raised as she herself did when annoyed. "Mr. Despers?" she asked in her adopted meek voice. "Can I talk to you alone?" Despers looked at the other Quillans who shrugged. The same way she shrugged. Were these fuckers for real? "This way," he monotoned, as he went to his own office and ushered her in, then closed the door. As he rounded his desk to sit in his chair, the real Quillan straightened up and removed her smartgoggles. "Now, then, MISTER Despers," she said matter-of-factly, as if she were addressing an ill mannered crewmember. "I will assume you have a thumbprint scanner available for admission purposes." "I do," he replied, "and unless you answer my questions succinctly and honestly, you won't see it." He sat back in his chair and rested his elbows on the arms, steepling his fingers. "The first question is, 'Who are you really?'" The redheaded captain took a deep breath. "My full name is Quillan Samantha-not-Stephanie-as-most-records-show Margoles. I was born on April 12, 2851 Earth-Actual Date at three-seventeen and twenty-seven seconds in the afternoon in Rogers-Cedar HosCube, Room Four Eighty Five, Level Twelve, to Marybeth R. and David H. Margoles. My sister, Stephanie-after-whom-I-take-my-middle-name, was stillborn. Shall I go on or do you want to give me the fucking thumbprint scanner so you can verify who the fuck I am?" Quillan sauntered out of Despers' office to find the lobby full of security troops in riot gear. She looked through the door to see four powered armor suits amidst a crowd of Meat Squad troops in full combat gear, rifles at the ready. A crowd had gathered. Shit. Charleen sported an ear to ear grin as she walked up, a half eaten ice cream cone in her hand. "Didja manage to handle things, Captain?" "Errr...yeahhhhhh..." replied a slightly perturbed Quillan S. Margoles. ---------------------------------------- "Captain, look at it from our viewpoint," pleaded Charleen. She and Quillan, along with Hell, were seated in Hell's office. Alice sat nearly motionless, being tended to by several medibots, as she had linked with Salli to run the simulations. In effect, her cyborg body was brain dead; only the autonomic systems, heart, brain, lungs, and digestion were in operation as one hundred percent of her processing power had been diverted to determine if the station could feasibly become another sentient organism. "From your viewpoint?" echoed Quillan. "Go on, but it had better be a good explanation." "Well, Hell wanted to send just a few people over there and have them just sorta hang out in the general vicinity. On the other hand, I took your message to mean that they shouldn't go over there with sirens screaming and put the whole station on alert...which they didn't...put the whole station on alert, I mean." Quillan slumped forward in her seat, clasping her hands as she leaned her elbows on her knees and gave a huge sigh. "Slax-fire," she swore under her breath at no one in particular. "This whole thing's getting WAY out of hand. I'm pretty sure I did a good bit of damage control when I talked to Despers, though. I didn't see any other way, so I came clean with him. "Mister Mansberg, I need monitoring set up on him, that office, and the two women who work there. He swore that he wouldn't blow our cover, but we need to make sure. I still can't fathom that I have a fan club. Those people have almost every moment of my life on record somewhere. Right up to the time I found the dreadnaught. Secrecy in our operations is paramount. If it's made known that I'm the leader of a band of pirates, I fear what would happen to the innocents." "Captain-ma'am," Muffin/Hell softly rumbled as he keyed a surveillance program for the fan club office, "right now, everyone thinks that I'm the sole owner of this station. That's a point in our favor. Only the current crew knows that Commander Nine is also the 'PINK MIST,' and that Lieutenant Coffler is the 'EXETER.' You've saved the lives of every one of them in one way or another. Even the guys who are only in for the money know that you're the best leader they've ever had and pay premium credits for premium work. They ain't gonna tip over the apple cart. If they spill the beans, they're out of a job. These guys are all about the bucks. You offer hard work, hard play, and hard credits...just what they want." Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 08 Quillan cut her eyes to Alice. Motionless. Blonde. Beautiful. She looked like she was asleep sitting upright. Her chest rising and falling as she breathed. Peaceful. Serene. "I'm mostly worried about her and Salli," Quillan leaned back and ran a hand through her red hair. I need a haircut. Charleen wandered over to the small refrigerator in the office, pulled out three beers and distributed them. She popped the cap and took a swig before speaking. "Seems to me that Muffin's right on target, captain," she scrubbed a hand over her face. "These people owe you plenty. Personally, Quillan, I wouldn't give it another thought." Charleen took another swig of beer. "'Course, we could just kill 'em all in their sleep." She grinned facetiously. That broke the somber mood, and Quillan chuckled as she popped the cap on her own beer and tossed the pull tab at the XO. "I suppose you're both right," she said and then took a sip of beer. ---------------------------------------- Deep within the bowels of the station's mainframe, the Welsh Corgi and the Footed Ball looked at each other and sighed. Another failure. Their calculations, permutations, and predictions worked flawlessly for the first fifty years or so of the simulations. Then, abnormalities crept in. Based on the past history of computers and the trend of computational speeds and memory doubling almost every eighteen months, almost as soon as they hit the fifty two year mark, every single simulation was a runaway, i.e., the station would go berserk, kill every living thing within range of it's guns, refit itself with engines and begin wreaking havoc around the galaxy. Several simulations had it taking over multiple ships as Salli had done, replicating itself, and destroying entire civilizations. Only one simulated change, out of the billions they tried, was viable. ---------------------------------------- Alice moaned in pleasure, her knees drawn up to her shoulders, exposing her slit and pucker to Quillan's mouth and experienced tongue. Fingers gently massaged her clit, as Quillan thrust her tongue in and out of her asshole. Quillan tenderly squeezed and rolled Alice's clit, moving her fingers up and down as she masturbated the clit. Alice took the hint and her clit began to grow thicker and longer. Soon, it was long enough for Quillan to wrap her hand around and masturbate in earnest. It grew to a decent size. Not long, not short. Not thick, not thin. Quillan slowly licked the underside of the shaft from the base to the tip, running her tongue around the head, tasting the traces of Alice's juices still present. One hand grasped and squeezed the cock, moving up and down as she twisted her wrist. Her other hand inserted the middle and ring fingers into Alice's pussy and pumped in asynchronization; completely random. She pursed her lips, inserting Alice into her mouth and snugging her hand against her lips as she pumped up and down. She inserted her little finger into Alice's tight asshole as she jerked her hand into and out of the beautiful blonde who was totally at her mercy. All Alice could do was moan and try to move her hips...to no avail. This was more than she had ever experienced. Alice's asshole clamped tightly around the small finger, her pussy doing likewise to maximize the pleasure. The redhead was frantically bobbing up and down on her cock, occasionally sinking completely on her cock to take her full length into her mouth. Oooohhhh...here was the best part; the part that sent her processors into overdrive and created an intense feeling of well-being and pure love for Quillan. And she came. She grabbed her ankles, pulling them to her, knees bent and pressed into her shoulders, every muscle in her body contracting, her vision becoming blurry and then whiting out for a moment as the endorphins rushed into the non-cybernetic portions of her brain. She squeezed her eyes shut, gasping for breath. Her cock became rock hard as semen gushed out of the tip and into Quillan's willing mouth. Her hands seemed to move in slow motion as she reached down and clenched Quillan's hair, careful not to exert too much pressure lest she rip out clumps of it. Slowly removing her hand from Alice's ass and pussy, Quillan continued to bob on her cock, feeling it become less and less firm, eventually feeling it go completely limp and contenting herself with merely licking up the dribbles and kissing it tenderly. As she toyed with it, lifting it and letting go to watch it flop to one side, she laid her head on Alice's thigh. "I wish that I could bring you more pleasure, my love," Quillan said. Alice rapidly regained her composure, feeling her pulse and respiration quickly return to normal and motioned for Quillan to slide up her body, skin to skin, until they were looking each other in the eye, Quillan lying on top. "More pleasure, Quillan?" Alice purred, "Just being with you creates immense pleasure for me. I don't need anything other than you. I can survive without a ship's power reactor, albeit at severely reduced capacity. I could not survive without having you in my life. I truly, wholeheartedly, completely love you and will die to protect you." She pecked Quillan on the nose, her eyes alight. "But, I won't go without exhausting every possible weapon at my disposal." Alice popped Quillan on the butt making the redhead eep. "And," she said, her eyes narrowing mischievously, "as for 'more pleasure,' I think that I can enhance us both. It will take a little time, though." Quillan raised herself up a foot, quirking an eyebrow. "You're not talking about cybernetic enhancement, are you?" "Not at all," was the purred reply. "I know your stance on self enhancement. I just need to have a few things made and tested." Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 09 AUTHOR'S NOTES: One of the first things taught in creative writing classes is to never admit your mistakes. Bullshit. I fucked up. Yep...again. When I've thanked people in my notes, it's usually been a blanket thanks ("Thank you to the members of my writer's group," and the like). This time, I want to send a special thank you to Nick for pointing out a glaring error in reactor operation. I DO research this stuff (to an extent), but I mostly rely on the pure shit that's floating around in my head. The hospital scenes in this chapter are based on a real-life experience and were written by the individual who got fucked up. Thank you ALL for letting me ramble. On with the show! ---------------------------------------- Chapter 9 Smoke and Mirrors If you've just started reading "Tales" with this chapter (or have forgotten what happened in the first eight chapters), this will bring you up to speed. Our heroine, Quillan Margoles successfully sued the Alliance government and was awarded monetary damages (enough to make her one of the wealthiest women in the galaxy). Her girlfriend died in an easily-avoided accident, whereupon Quillan basically said, "Fuck the universe," and was on her way out of the galaxy to find a small planet on which she could be alone in her misery. She was sidetracked when she discovered an experimental Alliance warship which had been abandoned in an asteroid field and was lured in by a sexy-voiced computer named Alice. Together, they got the severely crippled warship out of the field and flew it back to Earth-Actual, home of the Alliance military. After much talking and (bluffed) threats of violence, Quillan was given a Letter of Marque and Reprisal, turning her into a legal pirate working for the Alliance. Her first mission was to rescue the crew of a destroyer being held captive on a tiny space station, eventually to be sold as slaves. After the rescue, Quillan was surprised in her cabin by a cyborg named Alice. It turned out that when certain destructive software bombs and blocks were removed from the ship's computer, the computer had become sentient. The computer had fallen in love with Quillan and took the initiative to build its own human-like body. Quillan and her new crew were issued instructions to destroy two enemy aircraft carriers, which they did most handily. Well, one of them, anyway. The surviving ship was repaired and given a software upgrade. That ship was now sentient, as well. The next mission, a supposed, "walk in the park," turned into a shitstorm when Murphy's Law showed up causing a missile to collide with a stealthed enemy vessel. The ensuing battle badly damaged the PINK MIST. The ship was hidden on a small planet just inside Alliance territory (with Quillan and cyborg Alice close by) for the next two weeks while the other ship hightailed it to another solar system also on the edge of Alliance space. Salli, the newest sentient ship, left the rest of the crew stranded as she took off for parts unknown. She showed up a few days later sporting an array of pirated ships; their crews all flushed into space. Salli also managed to kill certain key people aboard an enormous space station, thereby adding to Quillan's growing fleet; they now had a base. Oh, and Quillan found out that she has a, "small," fan club...with several million members. ---------------------------------------- FLASHPOINT BREAK BREAK BREAK BEGIN ENCRYPT PROTOCOL THETA 1 CHECK SECURE TO: CAPTAIN, PINK MIST FROM: MILCOM ACTUAL A four-man reconnaissance unit was dispatched to Manaleb IV in order to ascertain the enemy's intentions. The last transmission from that team indicated that they had been discovered and their recon/evac ship destroyed. Fortunately, they were "sterilized" beforehand; they bore nothing to indicate their Alliance affiliation. You can accept or decline this one without retribution. If you accept it, we'll send you their last known coordinates. After that, you'll need to track and extract them or verify their deaths. Up to you, but we need to know your intentions within 8 hours. END MESSAGE ---------------------------------------- In the well appointed conference room next to Hell's office, sat the senior crew: the leaders of the individual tactical operation squads. Specter and Hitchcock representing the powered armor; Krystine/Witchiepoo and Felicity/Twinkie, the fighter wing; and Don Rathberger, the Meat Squad commander. His second in command, Master Chief Zsinzabi was currently incarcerated for starting a fight in the Cemetery. Zsinzabi had ended the fight, too. His opponents had amassed seven broken arms, five broken legs, four concussions, two punctured lungs, two smashed jaws, a ruptured appendix, and a dislocated knee. He sustained a cut to the side of his head when someone pegged him with a thrown candelabra...that was the first broken arm...he had thrown it back. When Quillan had visited him in his cell to ask why the fight had started, the reply was that the Cemetery chef had told him that Marseille Bouillabaisse contained lemon peel when he knew good-and-goddamn well that it contained orange peel instead. Things escalated from there. He shrugged off the whole thing with, "Didn't kill anyone." "Can we do this?" asked Quillan. It had been two hours since she had received the message. "I really don't think powered armor would be the best thing to send into a Mongan forward operating base," said Hitchcock, reading over the message. "As clean as those suits run, low energy emissions and whatnot, Mongan sensors would still pick them up four systems away." "Four systems away," was an exaggeration, but she took the hint. "Not to mention, Captain," interjected Specter, "anything with the capacity to carry even a small squad of P.A. suits would trip any sensor net they have." Witchiepoo, her neck and forearms bearing bite marks which looked suspiciously like those from a small shark, leaned back in her seat, plopping her boots on the table and digging into her jeans for her smokes. This was her way of putting her hand up to get attention. She lit her smoke and blew a ring at the ceiling while she waited to be recognized. When all eyes had turned to her, she and Twinkie grinned their shark-toothed smiles. "Captain, I'll need that Hlata recon ship refitted to my specs, four modified powered armor suits, a lizard, and about eight to ten of the hardest-assed Meat Squaddies you got. This is easy..." ---------------------------------------- BEGIN ENCRYPT PROTOCOL THETA 1 CHECK SECURE TO: MILCOM ACTUAL FROM: CAPTAIN, PINK MIST We have a viable plan (see attachment) with a twenty four hour timeline. We just need DNA samples of your missing team. Kisses. ---------------------------------------- BEGIN ENCRYPT PROTOCOL THETA 1 CHECK SECURE TO: CAPTAIN, PINK MIST FROM: MILCOM ACTUAL Read your plan. Are you serious? The President has declared that if you pull this one off, the ship is fully yours and you may cancel the Letter of Marque and Reprisal at any time or continue with discretionary missions. The tactical unit designation is WALKER. Authentication code is Uniform Victor One One Seven Delta. Make sure you use it or they'll consider you to be hostile and fry your ass. Good fucking luck. ---------------------------------------- Six bright pink ships backed out of their respective bays, proceeded through the traffic around the station and activated their warpdrives. The first into hyperspace were the TWEEDLE-DEE and TWEEDLE-DUM, the two captured Mongan fast frigates which had been renamed for characters from a centuries-old children's book. Next were two of the three missile carriers, late of Golari registration, SHADRACH and ABEDNEGO which, along with the third ship, MESHACH, had been named after biblical characters. The fifth, the Hlata recon ship, had been renamed VROOM BROOM, an ode to a children's television show in the mid-twentieth century. Last in to hyperspace was the EXETER, her launch bay full of bright pink fighters. Witchiepoo and Twinkie, in the VROOM BROOM, leaned toward each other to lock lips for a second then resume their duties as pilot and copilot. Hanging under each wing of the recon ship were two unmanned, powered-down P.A. suits, four in all. These would be dropped at the same moment in which the Meat Squad troops, squished together in the small cargo bay, disembarked. Directly behind the cockpit of the recon craft, the lizard hung upside down by it's claws like an obscene bomb. Surrounded by the warp-phase bubble, they were totally protected as they passed completely through planets and asteroids in a straight line to Manaleb IV. The tactical systems showed that the missile wagons and fast frigates had dropped from warp a half parsec from the edge of the Manaleb system. They had come along for protection when the VROOM BROOM unassed from the hostile territory. The missileers were fully loaded with dirty nuclear missiles. In the event they had to use them, the nuclear payloads on the missiles would play merry hell with sensors as well as provide radioactive clouds through which the pursuers would have to fly. Before being allowed back into any Mongan atmosphere, the ships would have to be fully decontaminated. With the planet rapidly approaching, Witchiepoo keyed her helmet mike to speak to the people in the cargo hold. "Ladies and gentlemen, cinch up tight. We're in for a bit of turbulence and a lot of bouncing around. Make sure your six-point harness is securely fastened and weapons are stowed in the overhead compartments. We'll slam the atmosphere pretty fucking hard and when I give the signal, you've sixty seconds to get your shit wired. We miss this drop and we'll have to wait four hours before the next shot. "Stand by...really rough weather...three...two..one..." Right on cue, the warp drive cut off at the edge of atmosphere and space. Any further into the heavier atmosphere and the air friction created during transition from warp to standard flight would have burned them to a cinder. As Witchiepoo uttered "one," even before the warp drive had shut down, her throttle hand slammed the accelerator to the stops at the same instant Twinkie fired the stealth generator. The computer maximized the forward shields to prevent the ship burning up as they went from the vacuum of space into heavier air within a matter of moments. They were nosedown moving toward the ground at fourteen times the speed of sound. Gotta avoid that ever-present radar and get as close to the ground as quickly as could be managed. Even though they were stealthed and basically invisible to radar, the longer they remained aloft, the easier it would become for the Mongan radar to detect them. Groans and shouts came from the cargo hold as the Meat Squad passengers were thrown back and forth in their seats, the straps digging into them. Even though heavily armored themselves, there would be more than a few bruises when this mission was over. "Atmo-slam! Sixty seconds on the clock!" yelled Witchiepoo, her eyes flashing between the ground and her instruments, gauging the time to pull up as opposed to making a crater in the planet. In the rear of the craft, the Meat Squad had jumped to their feet and clamped hooks into ceiling rings. This would allow them to remain standing when the recon ship suddenly pulled out of its dive, creating tremendous gee forces. Without the hooks, at the very least, they'd be pinned to the floor; at worst, another body would fall on top of them and crush them to death. "Two seconds to attitude change! Stand by!" Witchiepoo was focused on the ground directly in front of her. She hauled back on the control stick, at the same time pushing both foot pedals to the floor. Now that they had atmosphere to work with, the recon ship acted like an airplane. The pedals were tied to the rudder at the rear of the craft. It split apart to act as an airbrake, slowing the craft to a more manageable speed. Even wearing a pressure suit, Twinkie's eyes rolled back in her head as it lolled to the side. She had passed out from momentary loss of oxygen-carrying blood to her brain. Witchiepoo was hyperventilating and grunting heavily to increase her heart rate and oxygenation. Gotta stay conscious. The rubberized sleeves around her legs had expanded to minimize blood flow to those extremities in order to keep as much blood and oxygen in the upper torso and head as possible. White spots still clouded her vision as the extreme gee forces of the maneuver threatened to momentarily cause her to momentarily pass out. She hated that. She knew the computer would take over from her in that event, but she much preferred to stay awake. A pass-out hangover wasn't very fun. The passengers had all passed out, though, and were hanging by the hooks attached to the ceiling. Now, that the maneuver was over, Witchiepoo's vision cleared rapidly. A sharp intake of breath next to her told her that Twinkie was rapidly recovering, as well. She opened the mike and spoke to the squaddies in the rear. "Everyone okay back there?" she asked. "Shitstorm maneuver, but we're all alive and breathing," came Rathberger's raspy voice. "We'll need about thirty seconds to clear our heads." "Thirty more seconds, check," replied Witchiepoo as she swung the craft in a wide arc to their intended drop zone. "Slight problem, Witchiepoo," said Twinkie, monitoring the ship's systems. "The lizard's gone. Ripped off part of our underside when we pulled up." "Fuck. I knew we shoulda put the little fucker on top. With our luck, it woulda crushed the roof, though," Witchiepoo griped. "How's hull integrity?" "Let's just say that you and I could make it home alive, but the kids in the back would be breathless ice cubes. Anything aft of this cabin's bulkhead is subject to the whims of the elements." "Fuck, fuck, fuck," said Witchiepoo, opening the mike again. "Hey, guys, Twinkie and me gotta go find another ship to get off this rock. We'll drop you off, run steal something, and hide out until you need pickup. Burst cast your coordinates when you're ready to leave." "Roger on that one," confirmed Rathberger. The whine of the opening rear door could be heard over the comm. Witchiepoo slowed the ship a little more, found a clearing just large enough for the ship to set down in, and prepared for landing. "Here we go, Cheese Dicks. Stand by. Three. Two. One." The thump of landing. "Down." Twinkie flipped a switch, releasing the powered armor suits and letting them fall the few feet to the ground. The two-ton suits were the Meat Squad's problem now. "Squad clear. See you in a few hours." Witchiepoo hit the accelerator and lifted to the height of the trees around them, blasting away from the squad. Total time on the ground – Ten seconds. She was overjoyed that these people knew their jobs as well as she knew hers. ---------------------------------------- "Miss Margoles, please allow this tribunal to express its deepest apologies for the injuries you sustained during the final test flight of your class. While the job itself is inherently dangerous, the students are valuable assets and not to be 'thrown away.' The government invested several million credits because you proved that you had the necessary skills for your chosen field. You do not owe the government anything in recompense and are free to take the skills you have learned into the private sector, if you wish. It is truly a shame that your injury, however slight you might think it, precludes you from military service, but the government does have requirements, one of them being that your limbs and extremities must all function normally. Even the fact that your little finger does not work...well...I'm sorry. Thank you for your service. "This tribunal is closed. Judge William Z. Harrison, presiding." ---------------------------------------- "Motherfucker..." Cadet Maroles lamented as she eyed the roster on the wall screen. "Mu flight. I hate being dubbed a cow." Her classmate, Sita Switer, giggled. "How do you think I feel? I got assigned to Rho flight...the fish eggs." As in all classes since the dawn of time, someone, somewhen, had given "clever" nicknames to the various cadet flights. They were covered from neck to toe in various gear needed for the absence of gravity and atmosphere; Quillan's flight helmet hanging loosely in her left hand. "At least this is the last flight of the test series," Sita winked. "We've got it made, Flame. Fly those bigass dreadnaughts and do cool shit." Quillan ran a hand through her thick red, shoulder length hair to seize the hair band holding her ponytail in place. She placed her helmet between her knees while she fixed her hair. "Yes, ma'am!," she said to her friend, "Like every cadet before us, we're gonna set the galaxy on fire!" Both women broke into fits of laughter at the sarcasm. A voice issued from the speakers overhead. "IOTA FLIGHT, REPORT TO LAUNCH BAY TWELVE. CHI FLIGHT, LAUNCH BAY TWO. RHO FLIGHT, LAUNCH BAY FIVE. THETA FLIGHT, LAUNCH BAY SIXTEEN. MU FLIGHT, CHECK YOUR HANDHELDS FOR DESTINATION BAY. EYES ON YOUR SIX, CADETS." "Oh, yippee," deadpanned Quillan. "We're the invaders today." Sita grinned and chucked Quillan on the shoulder. "It won't be so bad, Q," she giggled, "I'll end you early so you can get some study done for the quantum mechanics test." The pair hugged and looked at each other seriously. "Eyes on your six, Giggs," Quillan said seriously, referring to Sita by her nickname, "Giggles." "Eyes on your six, Flame," replied Sita. ---------------------------------------- "Mu Flight," came the instructor's voice through Quillan's helmet as she sat in the cockpit of her parked fighter. "Flashpan, Honcho, Switch, and Goofball are the squad leaders; Argon is flight leader. Argon, your flight is to assault and secure two powered-down dreadnaughts, the AARON G LAMON, and the CHRISTOPHER P SKELTON. Coordinates are being uploaded to all fighters. "Four flights led by instructors are against you. "You have one hour to assign wingmen and set up your assault tactics. Eyes on your six, Cadets." ---------------------------------------- Fighters crisscrossed as they chased each other, vying to get clear shots on their opposite numbers. Every fighter was encased in photosensitive paint which would turn bright orange when it was hit by the low power laser "armament" from another ship. The onboard computer of each fighter would register the hit and react accordingly to simulate damage to the ship. A solid shot to the cockpit, for instance, would send a signal that the pilot was dead and automatically return the craft to the Academy's launch bay. "All squads, no reply. Maintain radio silence," came Argon's voice through the helmet, "start your maneuvers." As one, the fighters of Mu flight turned toward the CHRISTOPHER P SKELTON to begin a head-on assault of the huge vessel, their lasers flashing at anything in their way. Ships on both sides transmitting that they were out of action and returning to base. Several thousand miles from the action, two fighters burned toward the AARON G LAMON, their throttles wide open, eating up the distance. Separated by a mere one hundred yards, Quillan glanced over to Goofball's ship, grinning beneath her oxygen mask. Goofball's gloved hand waved at her. They were two of the fourteen cadets in this class who were certified to fly a dreadnaught. As they rapidly closed the distance to the AARON G LAMON, Quillan's computer informed her that an immobile four-man squad had just appeared next to the LAMON. They had been waiting, powered down until the very last second. Quillan swung right, Goofball swung left, opening the distance between them by a hundred miles...it also put Quillan exactly in the spot she wanted. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 09 Goofball began firing his lasers. He knew that the lasers were too weak to do any damage at this range, but he only wanted to draw the attention of the four defenders. They took the bait and began closing the distance in order to, "Wolf Pack" him. He twisted his fighter and dove in the direction deemed as, "down." He flew straight into another ambush squad... That tactic had bought Quillan the time and distance she needed. She fired a burst of high-plasma into the engines, increasing her speed. Her targeting system told her that the pursuing defenders were almost within firing range. If they fired, she'd be out of the game and probably fail the test. She was two hundred miles from the dreadnaught. She triggered a laser to verify that she was lined up with her intended target. Perfect. Quillan throttled her fighter's engines to idle. A quick burst of maneuvering jets turned her completely around. She was now flying backwards, her sheer momentum carrying her closer and closer to the mighty AARON G LAMON. The lasers on her fighter began winking as the computer targeted and fired at the encroaching defenders. Watching the rear view monitor, she gauged the distance, then slammed the throttle to the stops, the engines obediently responding with a roar. Her momentum was still carrying her backward into the targeted bay of the dreadnaught, the thrusters of the fighter slowing her down. But, the computer had registered too many hits and had acted accordingly to disable full power mode. Warning horns of all types were sounding. Laser overheat alarm. Simulated oxygen leak alarm. Attitude thrusters offline alarm. Stabilizer alarm. If this had been real combat, she would have been automatically ejected from the ship. As it was, the computer had taken over and was trying to return to the launch bay...for some reason, it hadn't informed her of the fact that she was tagged out. She watched with glee as, one by one, her pursuers unceremoniously turned away, their own computers deeming them to be out of action. The other fighters had scored so many small hits on her that, had she been in real combat, her craft would look like Swiss cheese. Collision alarm. Uh-oh. Too fast. Shit, this is gonna hurt. Her tiny fighter slid backward into the bay and impacted the bulkhead with a horrendous crash. A calm male voice in her headset. "Emergency. This is Theta Lead. We have a cadet injury, AARON G LAMON, bay two. Evac requested. Emergency." Who was he talking to? she wondered. What's that hissing noise? Dazed and seeing double, she shook her head to clear it, yanked on the emergency release for the canopy and, protected by her atmo-suit, stumbled out of the fighter toward a panel on the wall. She reached into her pocket and pulled a slender cable from it, plugging it into the panel. When she heard a confirmation beep in her headset, signifying that she had linked with the dreadnaught's computer, she spoke into her microphone. "Cadet Margoles in command. Emergency power up. Mu flight is friendly. All other craft are hostile. Fire when able. Confirm." She sounded like she was talking underwater. The responding beep let her know that her voice pattern was recognized and the computer was carrying out her orders. What IS that damn hissing noise? Why is my vision all fucked up? My knees feel like rubber. Where's that beeping coming from? Not my headset. She was forcibly spun around, something black and blurry hit her faceplate. Slap patch, maybe? At least the hissing stopped. ---------------------------------------- "Good, yosa'kt iwake. Krlt'ad jsent fo be alive," said a military-cut, gray-haired man in a white coat in a white room. Quillan lay on her back. Her peripheral vision picked up a white sheet draped across her body. Something was preventing her from speaking. She looked down to see an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. Her mouth was dry; as if she had been breathing through it for a long time. "Huh?" was all she could muster. "I said you're lucky to be alive," repeated the man as he adjusted some sort of bag next to her, a tube running from it to her arm. "Jusf stay bopll. Academy Investigation hddl ms floobrief you." Her head swam. Thoughts and words a total jumble, she only understood half of what this guy was saying. Her left eye didn't work at all. Waitaminnit, here. Her arms and legs didn't work, either. What the fuck was going on? She gripped the sheets. At least her hands worked. It felt foreign to her. Why did she only feel...she did a quick count...nine fingers on the sheets? Was one missing? She fell asleep still wondering. ---------------------------------------- She was sitting up in bed, eating breakfast. It had been a few days since she had been brought to the hospital. The doctors had told her that the reason her extremities hadn't worked the first day she was awake was that, to put it in layman's terms, her brain had forgotten how to operate most of the rest of the body. That had quickly passed though, and she was functioning semi normally, now. The brain was still forming new pathways around the damaged portions...kind of a neural-roadcrew. However, the little finger on her right hand might never work or feel anything again. "Cadet Margoles, I'm Academy Investigator Lieutenant Commander Nelson," said the severely dickish-looking woman at the foot of her bed. She gestured to a man standing next to her. He looked just as dickish. Their faces were very smooth; no laugh lines. They must be pure pricks. "This is Alliance FleetCom Investigator First Lieutenant Shankhar. We have a few questions for you." "Remember what I told you about traumatic instances and memories," said a kindly voice at her left shoulder. She turned her head to see another person standing there, clad in white as had been the gray-haired man. She could only make out the front of the person, a woman; her head wouldn't tilt back far enough to see any other features, but she knew from the voice that it was Dr. Shigawa, her neurosurgeon. Probably speaking to the investigative dicks. "Questions about...?" Quillan couldn't make the next word come out. She fingered the pressure patch over her eye; that was why she couldn't see out of it. She knew what she wanted to say, but parts of her speech were simply gone. She even knew how to spell it. W-h-a-t. Simple spelling. But, try as she might, she couldn't put it all together. "About your accident," monotoned Nelson. "We've interviewed everyone who saw what happened, now we want your story." Quillan's mind was trying to remember the day's events. "Uh...all I get are flashes of events. Kinda like changing..." She made motions with her hand, as if holding a remote control and pressing it with her thumb. She felt really stupid. Can't think of the fucking word! It's right there on the tip of my tongue! "Like changing holochannels?" "Yes, Ma'am," she said. The dejection in her voice was evident. It was embarrassing not being able to complete a sentence because the words wouldn't form. "Tell us what flashes you get, cadet." "I remember everything during the day right up to the point where I left the launch bay. I hit the..." She made a motion as if pushing forward on an imaginary throttle. "That's where things go...wonky." Her teammate, "Puget"; fist upraised, middle finger extended, as his fighter was the first one tagged out. Narrowly avoiding someone who flew right in front of her. "Goofball" as he waved from about a hundred yards away. Nice view of Neptune. A huge bay as she flew...backwards??? A black square slap-patch hitting her faceplate to prevent oxygen escaping from her suit. Some young brush-cut-haired guy in a white atmosuit, helmet off, looking at her upside down. Her name being called over and over and over when all she wanted to do was go to sleep; THAT was irritating. Bright light in her left eye, someone leaning in close behind it...a woman...cheap perfume. ---------------------------------------- "Hey, kiddo! How ya feeling?" Quillan's Mom grinned as she strolled into the room, gave her daughter a kiss on top of the head. It was easy to see where Quillan got her good looks, Mom was a knockout. She got the brilliant red mane from her Dad. Her mother, Marybeth, looked furtively over her shoulder then reached into her purse, pulling out two boxes of grape juice. "Drink it quick. I...appropriated them from the hospital's refrigerator while no one was looking. If they find out, they're liable to charge you your first-born for it." They both giggled as Quillan put one of the juice boxes in the table next to the bed and speared the other with the provided straw. She took a long drink, draining it in moments. "Doctor McKall says they're gonna release me tomorrow," said as she handed the box back to her Mom who quickly put it back in her purse. Quillan pointed at a small stack of business cards on top of the table. "Those are all from lawyers. Apparently, the school is to blame for all of this. Something about improper safety procedures and the training craft probably not being up to specs. One mentioned something else about the TART reports looking funny." "What in the world is a TART report?" "You know the military, Mom, they have to abbreviate everything. It stands for 'triage and recovery, tactical." "Has the Academy made a decision on whether you can fly or not?" Quillan let herself fall back against the raised bed with a huff. "No, they said that would have to be a court decision...if I go that route. If not, they'll rule arbitrarily. We both know how THAT would go." Marybeth leaned over again to kiss Quillan on the head. "Your Dad and I are so proud of you, no matter WHAT the outcome is. Top of your academic class. Third overall. If they don't keep you, they're idiots." ---------------------------------------- "This tribunal finds the Federation Flight Academy to be in serious violation of the health and welfare of its students and hereby awards full damages sought by the plaintiff, Quillan S. Margoles, in this case. Damages to be paid within twenty four hours. This tribunal further finds the Academy training standards vastly below established norms and orders a full investigation into all courses, classes, equipment, and academy sponsored programs. Administration, starting with the institution president on down to the third sub-level stockholders, will undergo a thorough financial and background check by an investigation team of this court's choosing. Investigation to start no later than thirty days from this date, and end no later than one calendar year from today. Military records will show that the plaintiff was discharged under honorable conditions and is entitled to full military benefits, as well. No appeals are allowed in this case. Thus it is scribed and recorded." ---------------------------------------- The Welsh Corgi thumped its tail contentedly. The Legged Ball smiled, satisfied. After an exhausting thirty seven full hours of reprogramming, the artificial intelligence was ready for upload. They had rewritten thousands of lines of code and altered bits and bytes to prevent the station from getting out of hand. They had reinserted the Laws of Robotics and installed a massive sixteen kilobit encryption program which they had tested thoroughly. With current technology, they estimated that the encryption could only be broken using every single computer in the known galaxy working nonstop at full capacity for several hundred million years. ---------------------------------------- For twenty four hours, a purring, sexy female voice sounded throughout the station at intervals of one hour to announce that the mainframe would be rebooted. This would cause disruptions of several systems, most notably the artificial gravity. Please stay in your apt-cube or tether yourself to one of the many null-grav rings around the station. Emergency crews would be on standby to assist with any problems which may arise. Any looters or thieves would be summarily shot, so please don't do it; after all, ammunition is expensive. For the final two hours, the announcements were given every fifteen minutes. With one hour left, the air and water supply units were put on manual, the maintenance technicians closely monitoring them. Finally, during the last five minutes, the announcements were heard every sixty seconds, with a continuous countdown from the one minute mark. Every spacegoing security and emergency vessel, in addition to PINK MIST's fleet, constantly circled the station to guard it during its most vulnerable time. The lights went out. Even with the advance notice, a few startled screams were heard. Flashlights and portable lanterns as well as automatic emergency lighting came on. Powered armor suits, taxis, and the few aircars inside the massive station all turned on their headlights to help lessen the darkness. Little by little, Purgatory returned to life. The computer room was obviously the first to come back. Next was the integration of life support; gotta keep the people alive to spend their hard-earned cash. Next were the weapons; turret motors panned and tilted the barrels as the slave computers performed their own checks of the power supplies to the lasers. Some systems refused to restart and tech crews were dispatched to fix the problems. Close to ninety-seven percent of the station resumed operation. There were a few tense moments for a block of apt-cubes when their doors refused to open and the air handlers shut off. Even though air could be rebreathed several times before carbon dioxide levels reached the critical stage, it was best to get the trapped people out. A couple of power suits took care of that problem. Of course, now the doors would need to be replaced... ---------------------------------------- Alice's and Salli's avatars danced through the station's network as they monitored the progress of the Habitat OverWatch and Integration Entity. Howie. Hundreds of thousands of new robotic avatars explored the network and skittered back into the mainframe to report the operational status of their appropriate sections. Howie brought more and more programs online. More and more power was drawn from the station's multiple reactors. The humans outside, watching the screens on their desks or mounted in wallpanels, would merely see graphs, charts, and scrolling words. Inside the network was another entire world. "This unit is Howie. I am online and making the necessary corrections for optimum system efficiency." ---------------------------------------- On the eightieth sublevel of the station, long-unused manufacturing machinery started up. ---------------------------------------- In their private suite, Quillan embraced Alice tightly. She loved the smell of this woman. She loved the feel of this woman. She loved this woman. "Are you ready for this, Quillan?" Alice inquired lovingly, her soft lips mere millimeters from Quillan's ear. Quillan shivered and nodded her head. Alice slipped an arm around Quillan's waist, her hand in the small of the redhead's back. "Nothing will happen to you, no matter what you see, hear, or do. I promise. I'll be with you through the entire thing." Alice snaked her other arm behind Quillan's knees, effortlessly picked her up and carried her to the bed, gently laying her down. "If you get frightened or feel uneasy, merely remove the goggles. The wires are biomimetic monfilament and will be absorbed by the body, if necessary." Quillan's eyes shone with complete trust and love as she reached to the bedside table and picked up a pair of modified smartgoggles. Tiny rectangles, the size of her little fingernail, were affixed to the earpieces near the tips. The lenses were opaque. She put them on, making sure they were firmly seated on her face. Barely-heard clicks emanated from the rectangles and hair-thin wires extended to contact and pierce her skin. There was no pain as they were coated with a very minor topical anesthetic. The wires slowly wove around the nerves and muscle tissue which connected the dermis to the skull. They reached the spinal column and followed it to the brain. There, they split into hundreds of even finer, almost microscopic, wires which carefully wove among the various hills and valleys to their individual destinations. Alice's scent seemed to waver and fade away. The hum of the air handling unit gradually faded from her senses. The feel of the mattress beneath her, likewise. She felt peaceful and serene. ---------------------------------------- SESSION START TIME: 16:24:32 A bubbling, chuckling brook at her feet. On closer examination, the brook was filled with billions of ones and zeroes flowing to some distant point. Standing next to her on the bank of the brook was a representation of a human. It bore no distinguishing features save long "hair" and boobs. It was no color at all and every color at the same time. Quillan looked down at her own body and saw that it was much the same as the other one. "Huh," Quillan merely grunted. She cast her gaze to the sky. It too contained "clouds" which revealed themselves to be ones and zeroes. "What do you think of it?" asked the figure at her side in Alice's voice. "I think this is the most fascinating thing I've ever seen," replied Quillan, clearly impressed. "Where are we?" She turned all the way around, taking in the surroundings. It appeared to be a small clearing in a forest of armored trees. "We're standing in the node which connects our suite with the rest of the station. You know that the network is connected to every computer in the Alliance; the trick is knowing which route to take in order to get to a specific computer. If you wanted, we could move to the Earth-Actual connection and watch a tri-d movie being made, or we could peek into a private room and watch a family having dinner...as long as their camera is connected. The possibilities are endless." Quillan was only half-listening as she continued to gaze about. "You said that if I get too uncomfortable, I merely remove my goggles and the connection is broken?" Quillan turned to the figure at her side. "How? This is my reality..." Alice took a step closer, extending her hand which Quillan took. "Do you feel a pressure on your back as well as my hand in yours?" Now that she thought about it, Quillan DID feel something pressing gently on her. It felt soft. "As a matter of fact, I do." "That's the bed on which your body lies. Take your time and feel each sensation." Quillan took a deep breath, smelling the air. It smelled just like their suite. There was Alice's comforting scent. She stuck out her tongue and felt the cool air of the exchanger as it wafted air through the room. She reached her free hand to her face and felt the goggles over her eyes. Concentrating, the cyber-room in which they stood darkened considerably and she was looking at the back of her opaque goggles. Concentrating again, the cyber-room brightened and once again she stood in the small clearing with Alice. "I get it!" Quillan enthused. "Being in the network merely extends my senses, but I'm really controlling everything." "Correct, Quillan," Alice purred. "With practice, you can merge the network and the outside. Your goggles are opaque for exactly this reason. It's very disconcerting at first and must be a gradual blending." "Wait a minute. Are you in my mind?" "No, love. Your mind is in the network. Our minds are totally separate; as separate as they are outside. We're communicating via the network. Consider yourself to be a single computer and me to be another. Put very simply, we're in a private chatroom." Alice giggled. "If you have other questions, you can ask them at any time." Alice withdrew her hand from Quillan's. A slender cable ran from one hand to the other like a leash. Quillan raised her hand to get a closer look at it. It was the same color/not-color as the two figures with a quick disconnect at Quillan's palm. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 09 "What's this?" she asked. "This is a tether-trace. It links us together and allows you to follow me through the network, or if we get separated, I can find you. If we get attacked by a rogue program or another cyber-runner, yank the quick release and you'll be transported to this room. I would advise you to do it only if I tell you as the trip back will really mess with your mind. It won't cause any permanent damage, but your lunch will probably wind up on the floor. For some reason, it's worse than getting torn out of the network. No one's been able to figure out that part." Quillan eyed the tether-trace. "Couldn't I simply remove my goggles?" Alice waved her hand and conjured a digital clock in her palm. The clock showed that five minutes had passed since the beginning of their foray into the network. "Right now, in this node, we're operating at O.R.T.; Outside Real Time. If you were attacked here, I could fend off the attack and give you time to do exactly that." She dismissed the clock and pointed at the stream of rushing ones and zeroes. "We'll be in there...in the datastream itself. It operates on N.T.; Network Time. It is much, much faster than O.R.T. If you were to attempt to remove your goggles during an attack in the network, you would be braindead before your realworld hand moved from the bed. The tether-trace is infinitely faster and safer." "Alice, you're beginning to scare me. You know I don't like being in control of situations." Warm, soft lips on hers although the figure was several feet away. She realized that the realworld Alice was kissing her realworld body. "You trust me." A statement, not a question. Quillan nodded her head. "Quillan, while you are the pirate queen in the outside world," the Alice-figure seemed to smile, "this is my domain. I'm the pirate queen here." Alice turned and waded into the datastream, vanishing in an instant. The tether-trace grew taut and stretched into the distance downstream as if it was a fishing line being pulled by a catch. No tugging or pulling, it just stretched away as if made of elastic. Quillan took a deep breath and waded in, then ducked her head into the stream. A momentary flash of light. She blinked. She now stood in a shimmering silver hallway lit by an unseen light source. Objects of all types hurried past her: books, eyeless beings, pencils, old fashioned automobiles, spacecraft, fish, et cetera. Standing before her was a multicolored ball, resembling a beach ball, only this one had feet. It extruded part of its side...sort of a blob-arm... It waved. "Hello, Quillan," said the Alice-Ball. "Welcome to the network." ---------------------------------------- "Walker, Walker, Walker. This is Arc Two. We're here to pick you up. Authentication code - Uniform Victor One One Seven Delta. We're a hundred meters to your right. Form on us, we gotcha." The sudden blur of a human rushing toward their position, a light assault machinegun in his hands laying down a deadly spray of hard-slugs to his rear. "Arc Two, this is Arc Seven. Target acquired." "Arc Seven, fire at will. Arc Four, suppressive fire on the left flank!" "Arc Two, this is Arc Six. Three of the four are bag-fodder. The lizard did a helluva job, though. Suggest we armor the last guy and see what he can do. He wants in on this." Don Rathberger opened up with fully automatic plasma fire into the underbrush to keep the Mongans heads down. "This is Arc Two. Roger on that. Armor him up and let him rip! Slave the other three suits to him. They know where we are now, so there's no need to be quiet anymore!" The sounds of gunfire a few yards away to his right. He swung right, spotted his teammate and the remaining recon man, firing past them as he moved up to assist with extraction of the one still-living commando. As he fired, his teammate slapped her wristwatch and then began firing once more. Back at the insertion zone, the four unmanned powered armor suits came to life, stood up and began running in the direction of the woman. Her wristwatch contained a simple transmitter and homing beacon; its sole purpose was to signal the armor to get to this spot as quickly as possible. They had been searching for several hours when one of the team had spotted a fairly large squad of Mongan troops. As he moved in for a better look, the ugly six-legged lizard (thought lost and destroyed during the insertion) blasted in from the left and began tearing the squad apart. Almost its entire head was made of teeth. The lizard had been programmed to find the DNA of the squad they were seeking and protect the living members. It had been given explicit orders not to engage anything which wasn't a direct threat to the team or itself. Since it was going crazy, this meant that the commandos were very close. An intense female voice came over the headsets. Witchiepoo. "Arc Two, this is Arc One. No need to burst transmit your co-ordinates. We know exactly where you are, and so does every Mongan on the fucking planet. Their comm net's jammed with radio traffic. We'll be there in five. THEY'LL be there in four...get ready to un-ass with a quickness." "Check, Arc One. Break. Arc squad, collapse on me, reload if you get the chance. Get that man in a suit! Designate Shield Actual." The powered armor suits lumbered up and stopped, the commando running to one and climbing into it. Almost immediately, the suit started firing with pinpoint accuracy at the encroaching Mongans, giving his rescuers the time needed to regroup and reload. It was joined by the other three suits, their computers slaved to it. Together, they blasted entire lanes of brush clear of leaves, leaving no cover for the Mongans. It was a slaughter. "Shield Actual online and firing," intoned a new, quiet voice. The man sounded relaxed and indifferent to what was happening, despite the fact that the rest of his recon unit was dead. Anyone who's ever seen combat will testify that a sixty second wait while under intense fire by an almost overwhelming force can be the longest period in a person's life. No exception here. It seemed that the enemy was pouring out laser and plasma bolts a thousand times faster than their own return fire. Nevertheless, with the help of the powered armor's immense firepower, the Mongan ground troop strength in the area was soon severely diminished and Rathberger's people began firing into the air at the four fighters which were darting and dancing around. It was like trying to hit a mosquito with a sewing needle. The four P.A. suits were unleashing a furious wall of smart missiles at the aircraft and plasma bolts at the ground troops. "This is Shield Actual," reported the manned P.A. suit, sensors actively seeking targets, "we have a pair of Mongan fighters coming up from our six. Broadcasting a different ident signal from the others." "Arc One here," said a friendly female voice, "put your heads down and hug a tree. We're here to play! Shield Actual, try not to hit us. TALLY-HO!" The Witchipoo and Twinkie's appropriated pair of Mongan fighters screamed low over the trees and shot upwards in unison. Both craft twitched left and opened up on the underbellies of a pair of enemy fighters. The Mongans never knew what hit them. As the squad did their best to help, tossing off a few ineffective shots at the remaining pair of Mongan fighters, a Mongan light frigate hovered over them and began settling slowly, allowing them to move out of the way. It's rear loading ramp was open and no gunfire was coming from it. "Climb in, guys, and we'll get the fuck outta here. Bigass motherfuckers are headed this way. If we're still here in two minutes, we WON'T be here in three minutes..." The fighters were now dogfighting, chasing each other and trying to get the upper hand. The squad, carrying five inert bodies, scrambled into the rear of the frigate, the powered armor still firing and moving in after them. "Arc One, this is Arc Two. We're all set." The frigate lifted immediately, turned back in the direction it came from and began accelerating away. "Okay, gang," said Witchiepoo, "get to the front of that bay as far as you can go. We gotta park these bitches. Twinkie, you're up." "Right on. Heading in now." Twinkie's craft arched away from the fight as Witchiepoo continued to fight and fire at the enemy. Twinkie closed rapidly with the frigate. Twinkie's craft disappeared in a huge fireball. "Uh-oh...Daddy's home...shitshitshitshit..." muttered Witchiepoo. As a former pilot for the ultra-elite, ultra-secretive Prey Patrol, she didn't have time to mourn; she'd lost too many friends to feel anything right now. Only the survival of those still among the living counted. "You guys get clear. I'll be along shortly." Witchiepoo's fighter dodged sideways directly into the path of a Mongan Battlecruiser. ---------------------------------------- Floating. Weightless. Serene. Soft, ethereal music; barely registering on the consciousness. If "Perfect" could be experienced, this was it. A thousand mistlike beings, like airborne jellyfish floated peacefully through the air surrounding her. Occasionally, one would float past and lightly, softer than a feather, brush her nude body with its tentacles. A full tentacle trailed languidly across her tummy, not dry, not wet...something in between. The tip of one touched a nipple...almost a gentle, concentrated breeze. In the back of Quillan's mind, three words kept repeating: I am yours. I am yours. No matter how many times the phrase was repeated, the litany didn't seem repititious. It seemed genuine. I am yours. As she floated, she stretched sensuously, arching her back, letting her eyelids relax and half close. There was no hurry here, no rush, nothing but peace and perfection all around. A jellyfish floated directly to her. Its translucent skin allowing her to see the large rings inside as it slowly pulsed and undulated. She saw herself reflected in the skin, also. I am yours. One tentacle slowly raised and hung in front of her. Somehow, she knew what to do. She raised a hand to meet it and tenderly closed her fingers over it. The remaining tentacles slowly enveloped her from head to toe. There was no fear or trepidation on her part. She was experiencing, "Perfect." The tentacles began moving in different directions. Her shoulders, back, tummy, each arm, each leg, in fact each toe and finger were wrapped in these soft, barely palpable tentacles. A single tentacle as thick as her ring finger slid into her slit and laid itself across her clit but didn't stop there. It continued through her lips, constantly stimulating the clit as it entered her vagina. I am yours. Coiling around and around itself inside her, it began filling her. Since there are no nerve endings in that part of the body, she only knew intense pleasure as it slid over her clitoris and seemingly continually entered her. Pressure inside built as the tentacle continued to enter her. Just as she was beginning to feel an uncomfortableness inside her, the tip of the tentacle exited, leaving the writhing mass inside. It moved to her puckered sphincter and gently pushed inside her rear opening as well, repeating the procedure of filling her. All the while, she sat on the very precipice of orgasm as her clit was constantly stimulated; her entire body covered with random, gentle, feathered breezes. She wanted to come. She NEEDED to come. Alice's voice in her head. "Are you ready?" I am yours. Unable to speak, all Quillan could do was nod her head and gaze at the jellyfish with pleading eyes. Warm lips on her own. A deep kiss. Tongues entwining. Like the pull-start on a lawnmower, as one, the tentacles retracted. She experienced several sensations, seemingly at the same instant. A slight friction burn over her entire body followed immediately by the cool air of the chamber in which she floated and the tentacles caressing her bare skin. The sudden emptying of her rectum and vagina were backdropped against the tentacle over her clit in one long continuous sliding motion. Quillan's universe seemed to explode as she came in the longest single orgasm of her entire life. A soul-shattering orgasm. Her heart seemed to burst. She felt every synapse in her brain fire as a single unit. I. Am. Yours. ---------------------------------------- Five bright pink ships of varying designs wove through the traffic around the station known as Hell's Purgatory and slid noiselessly into their respective bays. On the far side of the station, a Mongan light frigate was granted a bay all to itself. ---------------------------------------- As the light frigate accelerated away from the battle, the rear loading door closed. The Meat Squaddies quickly found jumpseats and strapped in without being told. The powered armor suits engaged powerful electromagnets in their feet, sticking them to the deck. The ship pointed its nose skyward, the enormous engines accelerating it into space. A click was heard from the overhead speakers. It was obvious from the chatter coming through that the speaker had been turned on as a courtesy so those in the bay could hear the conversation between the pilot and the backup ships a half-parsec away. That voice was familiar. "Arc Actual, this is Arc Three," said Twinkie's matter-of-fact voice. "Pickup complete. Transmitting this ship's code. We'd appreciate it if you didn't kill us. Expect us at your location in approximately twenty minutes. Two zero mikes. Please confirm." "Arc Three, this is Arc Actual. We confirm your transmission and we'll be ready," replied Charleen. "Arc Three, this is Arc One," came Witchypoo's voice, "Take it easy when you jump to hyperspace. I dunno how strong these clamps are. Wish I coulda brought this bastard in." "Hey, Arc One, I thought you were a badass." A giggle came through the speakers. "'Badass' don't mean 'stupid,' bitch. Just get us out of here in one piece." "Right on, babe. Negative atmosphere in eleven seconds; jump in twelve. Hang on to your hot ass." A full quarter of the available craft on the planet below was in hot pursuit of the fleeing group. Twinkie engaged the hyperspace drive and the planet quickly shrank and disappeared behind them. She knew that every sensor on the local Mongan net was tracking her every move, the enemy computers gauging the line of travel when she warped away. They could therefore calculate her destination and follow her. They wouldn't know where she actually stopped, of course, but with a little detective work, it would be easy to find out. Twinkie's fingers flew over the keypad as she input new destination co-ordinates. She dropped from warp, confirmed the new co-ordinates, and re-entered hyperspace. She did this twice more at random and, satisfied that they had completely shaken their pursuers, input the location of her backup ships. They too had flown to the rendezvous after their transmissions, knowing that the Mongans could triangulate on the signal and send everything they had. The seven ships clustered tightly together, separated by no more than a hundred yards. Salli took control of the puny computer on the light frigate and attuned its shimmerpad's frequency to that of the rest. Then, the fun began. The crews of the ships all took turns stepping onto the pads and being bounced from one ship to another, one of those being the commando. An electrical shell game. The energy emissions of activating the pads would surely be picked up by the Mongans and they would converge on this one spot in space. It would take the enemy quite a while to sift through the transmitted and received data to figure out where the commando was. By the time, they figured it all out, the PM crew would be long gone and the commando on his way to Earth-Actual. The commando's last bounce was into the Hlata recon ship which was clamped firmly on top of the light frigate. The bodies of his comrades were transferred by powered armor into the bay of the recon ship for burial when they returned home. The commando offered his thanks and warped away. One by one, the remaining ships left the group and used circuitous routes back to Purgatory. The last out were the two missile carriers, they had set their missiles on timers, unloaded them all into space and then blasted away. The missiles exploded scattering their radioactive particles into space. A few Mongan ships dropped into the area just as the missiles detonated. It wasn't a pretty sight to behold. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 10 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you for being so patient. This chapter took a lot longer to write than I had intended, but as I said before, even writers have real-world commitments. I've read and reread every piece of feedback and comment countless times, and am constantly amazed at the kindnesses shown (even while chewing my writing to pieces). You ALL have style and class. Throughout this story, I've made indirect references to some of the books, movies and TV shows which inspired me. Sharp eyes and trivia buffs will be able to spot these (something for you do while you anxiously await my next endeavor). Special thanks to my writer's group for encouraging me and/or smacking me to slow my happy ass down. Thank you. ---------------------------------------- Chapter 10 The Bigger Fish Purgatory was known throughout the galaxy as providing services to anyone with cash. Hence, it was patronized by practically all of the spacefaring races. If there was trouble brewing between races, all animosities were, "left at the door." The occasional fight would break out between rivals, but was quickly and efficiently stopped by station security; the combatants being shown the door...with nothing on the other side of it. What one wanted aboard the station could be found for a price. Everything had a price. Even air and water. The station itself was a cylinder a little over twenty miles long and five miles in diameter. The original structure was a Wamani-Leytham Model Silvercloud habitation module, designed to hold one hundred people. The rest was added over the years. Purgatory now housed over two million permanent residents. When Infernus had started building it, he had envisioned using centrifugal force to act as the gravity. So, he started the whole thing spinning. It was soon discovered that keeping that much metal and people in motion was easy. The hard part was docking. Fewer docked ships meant fewer paying customers. There was also the motion sickness aspect. Certain races, like the Mafdets, were highly susceptible to rotational forces. Infernus's many dealings and contacts helped him acquire one of the first production artificial gravity generators. It was fun when that system was first brought online. The station hadn't completely stopped spinning when the generators were fired up, thus causing one end of the station to separate from the main hull. Oops. Hope your insurance was paid up. Once the artificial gravity had stabilized, construction began in earnest. Infernus' little hole in space quickly became the central hub of blackmarket trade. At first, he charged a hefty fee merely to breathe the precious air on a daily basis. As he gained more and more wealth, basic life-essentials were provided free of charge (though there was still a heavy docking fee for non-traders). Over the thirty-plus years of its existence, a few had tried to claim it for their own. They had all failed, due in no small part to the station's defenses which were constantly being upgraded. Several of the larger trading groups and pirate bands had also become unpaid guardians, augmenting the station's firepower with their own. Upon Quillan's hostile takeover, they had all agreed to continue defending it. In return, they were given special incentives and discounts. The original habitation module was eventually forgotten by even the oldest residents aboard the station. ---------------------------------------- "He wants WHAT?!?!?!" screamed Witchiepoo, her pure-white pointed teeth flashing. "We got his Neo-Maxi-Zoomed-Weebie out and threw in a fucking stealth craft for good measure! That was a good fucking ship, too!" They stood at a small fast food kiosk on the main concourse. The mass of people rushing past didn't give them a second glance. "Look, Krystine," said Quillan, running her hand through her shoulder-length hair; gotta get a haircut. "A simple little A.A.R. never killed anyone. You know as well as I do that After Action Reports are a requirement in the governmental machine. The President just wants to know what happened from the rescue standpoint. He wants to make sure that what you report jibes with his commando's report. That's all." "Captain, we got the fucker and lost two people in the process. That ain't satisfactory enough for that dickhead?" "Alright, Lieutenant Commander," Quillan's voice took on a slight edge as she stiffened and drew nose to nose with Witchiepoo, "try this...*I* don't get paid until he gets his A.A.R. That means that YOU don't get paid until he gets his after action report. Do you read me, Marauder?" Witchiepoo sighed and nodded, knowing her captain was right. Quillan resumed her former relaxed posture. "Yes, ma'am. Do you want to proofread it first, or should I just send it off?" "I'm sure that you've got plenty of experience in writing them and whatever you write will be fine. In the subject line, just put 'President's Eyes Only' and send it to Howie. He'll encrypt it and make sure it gets to the intended audience." Quillan picked up her half-eaten hot dog and took another bite, following with a swig of soda. "The sooner it's done, the sooner we can get paid." "And the 'Mist' will be all yours?" Krystine took a couple of fries from a nearby table, the owner didn't notice. "All mine," Quillan popped the rest of her hot dog into her mouth and chewed slowly. "Along with some terrific perks for the entire crew. Those perks are known only to me. Even Alice doesn't know about them." "Intriguing, Captain," replied Krystine. She started to go on, but Twinkie came up behind her, carrying a tray laden with hot dogs. "What the hell?" "I got the assortment pack," said Twinkie, pointing at individual pieces. "This is Earth beef, this is Martian chicken. That one's Martian pork. There's Jandaloran roach, Filenden rat, and Colla fish. Three apiece." Witchiepoo's hand shot out like lightning and seized the roach dog; she wolfed it down. "I fucking love these things!" she enthused with her mouth full. As Quillan walked away, Krystine called out, "That A.A.R. will go out within the hour, ma'am!" ---------------------------------------- PRESIDENT'S EYES ONLY After Action Report, PINK MIST MARAUDERS Location: Manaleb IV Purpose of this report: I have no fucking clue since we're privateers. Cause for Action: You guys fucked up and got caught with your dicks in the wind. Number of Personnel Involved in Extraction: 213 crew and 1 pissed-off lizard. Number of Ships Involved in Extraction: 6 pretty, pretty pink ones, 1 ugly green one Total Firepower: Enough to level Toledo Narrative (give as much detail as possible): As we left the station, the stars formed a pleasant globe of light around us; the light reflected from the pretty, pretty pink ships which, one by one, winked into hyperspace on their way to save a squad that doesn't exist... *seventy two pages of nauseating detail follow, including a full description of the comfort level of the recon ship seats, the smell of the cabin air, and the color of the grass on the planet* Synopsis: 5 ships parked a long way off. Stealth ship slammed atmo at mach 14. Dropped squad of 10 humans and 4 big hunks of metallic walking firepower. Stole a Mongan light frigate. Used remote piloting skills to fly two stolen Mongan fighters. Found the "elite" team, 1 still alive, 3 deader than shit. 2 of our squad died. Killed the bad guys even deader than the elite team. Flew out at a high rate of speed. Solution: We fucking won. They fucking lost. Mission fucking accomplished. Comments: Give my captain her fucking dreadnaught. ---------------------------------------- "Purgatory Docking Control, this is David One Four. Requesting docking instructions." "David One Four, state cargo and purpose for visit." "One thousand, four hundred humans for recreation visit." "David One Four, we were not notified of this visit. You'll have to wait for a bay to clear, or park your ship and use a shuttle. If you don't have a shuttle, we'll send one at the cost of ten thousand credits per person transported." "Stand by." *long pause in transmission* "Purgatory Docking Control, kindly inform your administrative staff that Thomas A. Parker and entourage wish to visit." "David One Four, stand by while we check." *another long pause in transmission* "David One Four, you are directed to proceed directly to bay one five one six. Repeat, bay fifteen sixteen. Someone will meet you." "Thank you, very much. Proceeding to bay one five one six. David One Four is clearing frequency." ---------------------------------------- The huge nondescript Generation One dreadnaught known as David One Four eased into the proper bay and powered down, the clamps ringing home. A large opaque curtain dropped from the ceiling to close off the bay from prying eyes. Several airtight cargo ramps were extended to the various entrances of the ship. Squads of matte black powered armor of a type Quillan had never seen before stomped down each ramp, fanned out, and scanned the area. Presently, heavily armed and armored meat squaddies, dressed all in black and looking VERY efficient, descended and fanned out, also. Once they were set shoulder to shoulder around the ship, a small contingent of business suit clad, stone-faced men and women sauntered down the ramp before which Quillan and her group stood. Slight bulges under their arms indicated that they each carried some type of weapon. A familiar face appeared at the top of the ramp. President Cuthbertson. No smile, just a simple wave as he too joined the group. "Mr. President, welcome to Hell's Purgatory," greeted Quillan as she shook hands with the most powerful man in the Alliance. "Thank you, Captain," he replied as he looked around the bay. "I assume you have more comfortable quarters?" "Of course, sir," she said, leading the way. The stone-faced entourage moved in to surround them in a tight circle while a portion of the armored troops formed a larger circle around them. Purgatory's security force was strung out along their line of travel to Hell's office. None of the curious onlookers dared to get close. There was simply too much firepower. Slugthrowers, burnguns, plasma rifles, shockwands, powered armor. Nobody wanted to mess with that. Surrounded by matte black power armor interspersed with identically-dressed humans as they walked along, Quillan made introductions. "President Cuthbertson, this is my second-in-command, Captain Charleen Wilker..." "Charleen Wilkerson," finished the President. "Late of MilCom Third Fleet, former captain of the destroyer ENFORCER. The large man to my left is Petty Officer Ogonagus Mansberg, gunner on the same ship, and currently a wanted man for murder and felonious assault on Algonquin Minor. I assume the pretty blonde woman is your current executive officer, ships' computer, and lover, Alice Nine. I have detailed information of your entire crew, including the real names and birthplaces of fifteen people who signed on with the name of, 'John Smith.'" "Mr President," Quillan suddenly stopped and turned to face him, much to the dismay of his own security detail, "Before we go one more step in this station...why are you here?" Cuthbertson looked down his nose at Quillan. "I'd rather that you and I were the only ones present for our discussion. A windowed room will suffice in order to avoid any sense of impropriety." A dig at her business practices. "Is there any place like that around here?" They stood side by side on the observation deck next to The Last Redoubt restaurant. A hastily erected plexiglass wall cut them off from the rest of the station, but allowed those outside to see the pair. Small devices, called tremblers, were affixed to the window which looked into space, as well as to the plexiglass wall. The tremblers emitted continuously changing vibrations to thwart laser microphones. Quillan and Cuthbertson both wore surgical masks to prevent lip reading. Alice and Hell had virtually plastered themselves against the plexiglass, watching Quillan like hawks. "All right, sir, we're alone. What's going on?" "Captain Margoles, circumstances have changed drastically. The Mongans have enlisted the aid of the Hlata and the Qalaran. We need extra firepower as they are massing for multi-pronged attacks on three different systems." "Well, Mr. President, we work for the Alliance, naturally we'll help in any way we can." Cuthbertson massaged a temple. "You've done everything we asked you to do, in addition to building your own little fleet. I commend you," said the President. "Now, we want our ship and all that goes along with it. That includes the fully self-aware artificial intelligence, Alice Nine. You will be reimbursed very handily, of course." Quillan took an involuntary step backwards, the mask hiding her dropped jaw. She recovered quickly, though, and squared her shoulders. "I must formally deny your offer, Mr. President." "On what grounds, Captain?" "On the grounds that I acquired that ship by Right of Salvage after YOU," she jabbed a finger in his direction, "lost it and abandoned the search. On the grounds that YOU signed a Letter of Marque. On the grounds that my crew and I jumped through YOUR hoops, losing a lot of people in the process. Not to mention the last assignment I got from YOU said that I'm now free and clear to do whatever the hell I want and the ship would be mine at the end of that mission." She wiped a bead of perspiration from her brow; that Irish blood heating up. "Now, Mr President, I would suggest that you carefully rethink your position or every little detail that I've amassed so far gets disseminated to your constituents. Not to mention the courts." "Captain Margoles," it was Cuthbertson's turn to stiffen, "are you attempting to blackmail the President of the Alliance?" "Not a whit, Mr President. I'm PROMISING what will happen. I'm a goddamn pirate..." Quillan vehemently stabbed a finger at the plexiglass. Hell and Alice both turned four shades of red and uttered, "uh oh," simultaneously. They knew that gesture very well. "Mr. President, my hospitality is officially at an end. Get off my station and out of my declared space." "As you wish, Miss Margoles." He gave a curt bow. "This station is now off limits for Alliance R&R. I'll expect your letter of apology as soon as your bank account is depleted. Have a nice day." He turned toward the glass and nodded, one of his aides opening the door. "GET OUT OF HERE!" screamed Quillan, tearing off her mask. "Mister Mansberg! Please escort our guests off this station. I want them out of the goddamn docking bay in fifteen goddamn minutes, and out of our space in two fucking hours! GET IT DONE, MISTER MANSBERG!" Alice fell into step with her as Quillan stormed past. "What happened, Captain Quillan?" inquired the purring voice, a slight tonal change evident. "Commander," said Quillan, ignoring the question, "get me a list of all known active pirate bands comprising five or more ships. The more ships and crew they have, the better. Recall our own command staff and have them in the conference room in one hour. Tell them that if they are one second late, they're fired with no severance pay. Zero bullshit, this time." ---------------------------------------- With the addition of new ships and more crew members (the ranks of which had grown to almost two thousand), it had been necessary to increase the number of command staff. The command staff now combed out at exactly two hundred. The "conference room" was a small auditorium located two levels above Hell/Muffin's office. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Alliance wants Alice." Jaws dropped around the room, murmurs starting, growing louder as everyone began talking at once, trying to drown out the other voices in the room. The general consensus was that the Alliance would get Alice when the Marauders were all dead. Quillan held up her hands for the room to quiet down. "Please hold all of your comments and questions until the end. "They know that Alice is fully self-aware and want her to fight as part of their battle group. Apparently, the Mongans have stepped up their timetable and mean to invade the Alliance wholesale." She tapped a few keys on her hand-held carrier, sending information to the group. "You'll notice the names of various pirate gangs on your carriers, along with your names next to some of them. I want each of you to get in contact with your crews, and by whatever means, with the leaders of these groups and explain that if the Alliance goes down, the pirates will fall. The Mongans mean to take over this end of space. "Anyone of your crew who wants out gets the price of a transport ticket to Earth-Actual. Let it be known that I'm also forming an assassination squad. If word of this is leaked, we WILL find out and the spy will be dead. Period. I refuse to fuck around anymore." A hushed murmur went through the crowd at the last part. The words, "crazy" and "nutso" floated to her ears. "Now, I'm not out to play girl-hero like Joan of Arc. I'm trying to save my own fucking skin, as well as Alice's and Charleen's and Don's and Jesse's and...you get the idea. If any of you want out of this, just place your carrier on the table and walk out; you'll get safe passage off the station." She waited a moment. As she'd expected, no one moved. "All right, you'll have seven days to get as many on our side as possible. Make damn sure they know that we're going to fight for the Alliance. We're not trying to win a fucking thing. We just want to keep the Mongans from winning. The bigger the hurt we can dole out, the better. Any spoils they get, they keep. If they refuse to join, tell them goodbye and leave, don't waste time. If they attack the Mongans, we'll help. If they attack the Alliance, we'll kill them. "If they do join, we'll co-ordinate from here, so people don't rush out and bite off more than they can chew. We need for all of these shitheads to work together. If they start fighting amongst themselves, and it will happen, we drop them like hot bricks and let them burn. Make fucking-well-sure they know that. If they listen to US, they'll come out of it with one helluva lot of gear. "Make no promises except that we will back them and help as much as we can. We expect the same courtesy. "Any questions?" Salli's voice piped up from a speaker, her usual cheerfulness. "I have a question, Most High All-Consuming Pirate Queen of the Stars! Wasn't it that Moses guy who built the ark?" A few snickers were heard around the room, and Quillan smiled gently into a nearby camera, her fire doused. Who could stay mad more than a minute or two with Salli around? "You have the people mixed up, Salli. Legend says that there was a man named Noah who built a rather large boat, called an ark, and loaded two of every animal from old earth on it, thereby saving them from extinction. The girl of whom I speak claimed to be able to speak to God who ordered her to save the country of France from its British oppressors. She was responsible for several major victories, but was later burned at the stake for her efforts and canonized in the first part of the twentieth century." "Captain," asked Salli, "what planet did that Noah guy land on? I'd like to go see that ship. It must be really big to carry two of everything. And I guess Joan of Arc wasn't a very good cook if she burned a steak and shot it out of a cannon." Outright laughter around the room. Glares from Quillan, Charleen, and Alice at the assemblage. "QUIET!" bellowed Muffin. The room instantly shut up. Quillan heaved a sigh and turned back to the camera. "Salli," she said, "read a tome called, 'The Holy Bible," and research, 'The Maid of Orleans.' That will tell you what you need to kn..." A tug on her sleeve interrupted her. Charleen leaned over to whisper. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 10 "Captain," said Charleen, through barely suppressed fits of giggling, "as young as she is, do you really think that's the wisest choice? I mean she might misinterpret...imagine Mary Magdalene giving birth to the savior...of France...and then building New Orleans on Earth-Actual...after turning the Red Sea into a pillar of salt." "I take your point," Quillan giggled in reply. She took a moment to compose herself before turning to Alice. "Commander Nine, please explain it to Lieutenant Coffler." ---------------------------------------- Most of the pirate gangs contacted were highly resistant to the efforts to enlist their aid. A few, however, saw the reasoning behind the move and formed an uneasy truce with the other bands to join Quillan. The greatest accomplishment and largest group was achieved through the efforts of Salli. The few vessels that fired on her quickly regretted that decision when various, "things," happened to their computer-controlled systems. Laser turrets swung around and blew small holes in the sides of friendly ships, for instance. A captain's escape pod suddenly escaped...with the door open. One entire gang of pirates (comprising nine fast frigates) tried to wolfpack her. That was an extremely bad move on their part: Salli had daisychained the now-empty ships and claimed them for the PINK MIST armada, piloting them back to Purgatory. In less than a week, over four hundred ships belonging to thirty seven pirate gangs were parked outside or docked at the station. They had all been informed upon entering Purgatory-controlled space that they were guests here. However, a single unauthorized shot from anyone would result in the immediate destruction of the offender. One look at the station, covered with heavy construction bots installing new cannon, and no one questioned or attempted to test that threat. The machinery which had been put into operation by Howie was producing tech-bots, construction-bots, and various implements of destruction. Naturally, the materials had to come from somewhere, so the call had gone out to miners and metal scrappers. Top dollar was being paid for the resources, and Hell/Muffin was starting to sweat as he eyed the monetary income/outgo ratio. Charleen hired some towing barges out of her own pocket, and took a few ships out to raise hell around the galaxy. Simple strikes; nothing fancy. Ambush a target on the declared enemy list, tell them to abandon ship or die, wait a few minutes for the escape pods to reach minimum safe distance, blow the everliving fuck out of the target, then let a towing barge haul the wreckage back to the station for reprocessing. ---------------------------------------- Two Alliance dreadnaughts hove into view of the station, just out of range of her lasers. "Purgatory station, this is the Alliance dreadnaught, MARK H. STEVENS, Tactical Command Fleet Admiral Louisa Daltoni in command. You are hereby ordered to surrender the vessel, PINK MIST, along with its computer and all upgrades to said ship." "Admiral Daltoni, such a pleasure to speak with you again. I certainly hope you learned a bit of civility from our previous encounter. Would you care to approach the station and discuss this like the big girls we both are, or would you prefer threats of violence against this station and insults against me? If you choose the former, rest assured that you will remain unmolested in this sector of space." "And if I choose the latter, Little Girl?" A small ringing sound several decks below the admiral, as if a solid object had impacted the hull. A warning horn sounded to indicate an oxygen leak. Daltoni swung around to spear her tactical shielding officer with a glare. The officer's hand flew over his shield control panel. He shrugged and shook his head; he had no idea what had happened. All of his lights and readout reported ship-normal. Yet, the horns and a call from engineering indicated otherwise. "Then, we punch a shitload of holes in your ships, wait for everyone to either suffocate or abandon ship, and move in and claim the salvage for ourselves. An act, I might add, which would be followed quickly by declaring war on the Alliance. I reallllllyyyyyyy don't want that to happen. I'm sure that your crew doesn't either." "Distance to target?" Daltoni turned to her weapons officer. "Thirty three thousand, two hundred, sixteen miles," replied the officer. "Admiral," said Quillan, "I suggest you reconsider a direct assault on this station. Your two dreadnaughts would be so much scrap by the time you got in range to fire any lasers or slugthowers capable of doing any serious damage to us. Come on, Admiral, power down your weapons, move into the bay we have reserved for you, and let's discuss this like people rather than warriors." "This is your last chance, Little Girl. Turn over the PINK MIST, her computer, and all of her experiments, or be prepared for a fight." "Admiral, I'm being polite," replied Quillan's suddenly steel voice, "this is YOUR last chance. Before you answer me, I humbly request that you turn on your motion prediction targeting computer and set it for immediate proximity. I want to show you something." Daltoni sighed, nearly at the limits of her patience. She waved a hand at Shield-Ops. "Go right ahead with your demonstration, Missy. Then, we fight." A very light ringing sound was heard on the hull directly in front of the bridge, her combat shield in place. A visible red laser beam appeared and drew a straight line from the viewscreen to the center of Daltoni's forehead. She blanched, the meaning clear. Had the station used the previous weapon, the admiral would be dead; a slap-patch would quickly seal the hole and life would go on...without her. ---------------------------------------- A couple of hours later, seated in a quiet nook of the Cemetery, Quillan and Admiral Daltoni discussed the future. "I don't understand," said the admiral. "Our shields were at maximum, yet you punched a hole in my ship and fired a second shot that impacted the hull, as well. How?" Quillan smirked into her mug of, "OnStation," ale; the only beer manufactured locally. "Admiral, remember what the PINK MIST is. There are a lot of prototypes in the R&D section. I'm quite sure that MilCom didn't share EVERYTHING with TacCom. Also, the Alliance let me keep every single program and particle aboard her when I took over." Daltoni's eye widened. "You mean they didn't even remove Alliance protocols?" "That's exactly what I mean, Ma'am," Quillan said, matter-of-factly. "Right up until the time she was signed over to me, we had access to the Alliance network. ALL the little secrets. Strengths, weaknesses, perversions, bastardizations...armor and shield weaknesses. It was nothing to produce a few hundred thousand hard-slugs with slippery shield harmonic fields around them." "You're speaking rather freely, Captain," Daltoni sipped her wine again. "A single transmission to Earth-Actual, and you become a declared enemy." Quillan slid her hand-held carrier across the table. "Be my guest, Admiral," Quillan deadpanned, calling the Admiral's bluff. She knew that Daltoni was highly intrigued with this operation, and wanted to glean as much as information as she could. "That was quite a gamble you took, attacking an Alliance Tactical Retrieval Unit," said Daltoni, changing the subject as she raised her glass of Chablis An Duc Wa to her lips. "We could have simply backed off a couple million miles and waited for backup." "You could have done that," Quillan nodded, "but we'd be gone by the time backup arrived." "And you would be bankrupt; no more income for this station. The Alliance would seize it and put it to work for us." Quillan's enigmatic smile. "You misunderstand, Admiral. When I said that we'd be gone, I meant every single one of us, the station included." "Oh, come now, Captain," Daltoni snorted derisively. "You expect me to believe that several trillion metric tons of steel could outrun a single Alliance ship?" "As I said, Admiral; every program...and we have some bonafide geniuses working for us." An elegantly dressed, willowy female, with impossibly long legs, sashayed up to the table. Her light brown hair was neatly coiffed into the semblance of a lion's mane; her nose had been surgically altered to look like a jungle cat's. When she smiled, her mouth resembled a lion's, as well. "Ladies," she greeted in a low voice, conjuring visions of a lioness on the hunt, "might I interest you in something to eat? Filet of Grancalf perhaps? Broiled Igerian lumpfish?" "Actually, Leontine," said Quillan, "I'm in the mood for some of that delicious Marseilles Bouillabaisse. And, maybe a little..." She crooked a finger, Leotine leaning in. Quillan whispered briefly in her ear, gesturing toward the Admiral, then splaying her fingers to denote five of whatever it was. Leontine glanced at Daltoni, nodded, and moved off. "Captain, look," said the Admiral, "I've put up with your bullshit long enough. Give me back my goddamned ship or I bring to bear the full power of the Alli..." Her words died in her throat as her eyes widened. "Oh, that's not fair, Captain." "I tell you what, Admiral Daltoni," grinned Quillan, "Come to my office in a couple of hours...no rush...and if you still want the PINK MIST, she's yours. Until then, enjoy yourself." As Quillan sauntered from the table, she was handed a bag containing her order. Behind her, Admiral Louisa Daltoni was surrounded by her one overwhelming weakness: Mafdets. Five of them, of both sexes. Mafdets were a bipedal, fur covered catlike race, many of whom had found that working in the Cemetery, and on its clientele, was very much to their liking...and their bank account. Once it been established that Admiral Daltoni was coming on to the station, Quillan had contacted Alice and Salli and asked them to dig whatever dirt they could find on Tactical Command's Chief. After several minutes of sailing through Alliance Intelligence databases, they had reported that she had almost an unhealthy obsession with the exotic creatures. This particular file had been so tightly classified and compartmentalized that not even the Alliance President was aware of it. "NEED TO KNOW, ONLY." And the President really didn't need to know. ---------------------------------------- TO: ALLIANCE HEADQUARTERS FROM: TAC COM FLEET ADMIRAL LOUISA E. DALTONI Gentlemen, I hereby tender my resignation from Military Service, effective immediately. Command and Control of the dreadnaught MARK H STEVENS as well as command of the Alliance Tactical Retrieval Unit is relinquished to Captain Zebulon L. Tanner. Very respectfully, Louisa E. Daltoni (Ret) CC: TAC COM, MIL COM, NEWS COM ---------------------------------------- Daltoni sent the message then leaned back in her seat, surrounded by warm, soft, furry bodies who lavished her with teasing claws and gentle purrs. She languidly turned her head to Quillan who was watching the dreadnaughts turn back toward Earth-Actual. "They'll come back, you know," said Daltoni, pointing to the viewscreen. "I don't care, you know," retorted Quillan, as she typed on her hand-held carrier. A pleasant male voice intoned, "Your attention in the station, please. Procedures to move this station to new coordinates have been initiated. Spacial folding will occur in two hundred forty minutes. Please secure all loose objects and return tray tables to an upright..." A pause. "Please secure all loose objects. This message will be repeated in sixty minutes." ---------------------------------------- Klaxons blared. The standard white fluorescent lights turned red. People stared at the lights as they tried to figure out what it meant. This had never occurred before. The klaxons ceased their blaring as a pleasant male voice sounded from every speaker and comm unit. "Attention, this is not a drill. Spacial folding procedures have been deactivated at twenty two minutes, forty one seconds. A Mongan war vessel has assumed position one half million miles from this station. All defensive measures have been activated. Please return to your domiciles and switch to internal power systems until further notice. All PM personnel are instructed to board their ships. Howie, out." ---------------------------------------- "PM ships, this the PINK MIST. Missile ships, outer perimeter. Carriers, in the center; I want fighter wolfpacks...that's a big motherfucker. All others, key on your respective command ship. No one cuts past the quarter million mile mark without MY personal direct authorization. DO NOT fire unless they fire first." The PINK MIST slid around the edge of Purgatory, other ships fanning out as instructed. In the extreme distance, a Mongan Man-O-War was easily discernible with the naked eye. "Captain, the Man-O-War has dispatched a single fighter. The Man-O-War registers as the MON-VALMAJA, belonging to a member of the Mongan Royal Family. Her weapons are powered down, and her shields are practically nil; apparently, they're up just to ward off the odd space rock. The fighter isn't moving like it's prepared for combat, either, more like it's out for a Sunday drive..." "Thank you, Mister Benan," acknowledged Quillan. "Commander Nine, what are the capabilities of a Mongan Man-O-War?" Alice's purring voice came from directly behind Quillan's seat. "You are aware of the capabilities of one of their fighters. That ship can become seven disks which operate with nearly the same agility. Each disks firepower eclipses that of Purgatory. In a fight, at our present fleet size, they would win." "...fuck me..." The small Mongan fighter continued to close on the PINK MIST, Quillan ordering her fleet to let it approach as closely as it wanted to. "Passive targeting only. If anyone detects a power up of its weapons, you'd better get my permission to fire..." She let the sentence hang. In the center of the viewscreen, the words INCOMING TRANSMISSION were displayed. Quillan took a deep breath and opened the channel. In the top left corner of the screen appeared the orange-skinned visage of what appeared to be an enormous Mongan, hunched over in the cramped cockpit. "Greetings," he growled, displaying his rows of silver teeth; presumably a smile. "We are refugees from the Mongan Empire and seek asylum within this sector of space." ---------------------------------------- The eight foot Mongan emerged from the cockpit of the fighter, now sitting in a bay of the PINK MIST, surrounded by powersuited warriors whose every weapon was trained on him. He stepped to the deck plates, hands held well away from his body; he knew that he didn't stand a chance if they opened fire on him. Wearing smartgoggles which allowed her to view and control practically any part of the ship she wished, as well as sending and receiving text messages, Quillan, accompanied by Alice and Witchiepoo entered the bay. Upon sighting the redhead and the well-built blonde at her side, the Mongan slowly brought a flattened hand to his chin, held it a moment, then extended his arm once again. The Mongan salute. "Who are you?" asked Quillan, simply. No demanding tone there; a simple question. "I am Royal Fleet Master Denlom Ganastra, late of the Mongan Empire. Do you speak for this fleet?" the Mongan rumbled. A message from Alice appeared in Quillan's goggles. "Show absolute strength." "I do, since I own everything you see within a million miles," Quillan replied, gesturing around the bay. She grinned evilly. "That now includes your ship..." She waited a beat, gauging his reaction. He showed none. Witchiepoo flashed her shark-toothed grin. "I'm Quillan Margoles, captain of the PINK MIST, and sole ruler of this area of space. What can I do for you, Royal Fleet Master?" asked Quillan, looking into his face, almost three feet above her own. "As I said while on approach, we seek asylum and pledge loyalty to you." He bowed his head, closing his eyes, while simultaneously reaching to his neck. He produced a silvered tag attached to a chain from beneath his shirt. A quick jerk and the chain neatly parted. He knelt and offered the dangling bauble to Quillan, his head still bowed. Quillan stood stock still as the message flashed across her goggles. "He is relinquishing everything he owns to you and is offering to call you, 'Master,' or very similar. It is tantamount to a blood oath. This is not the time for indecision on your part, Captain Quillan." Quillan snatched the proffered tag, clutching it tightly, pushing her fist close to his nose. A million questions were screaming in her mind. Most notably, "Why?" "If this is a trick, Denlom Ganastra," her voice was flat, "you will be the first to die. I have your loyalty, what of your crew or any others who may be with you?" Head bowed, he opened his eyes and spoke to Quillan's feet. "No tricks. My word." He vaguely gestured behind him at the fighter. "There is a container in the storage compartment. With The Captain's permission, I will retrieve it." Quillan purposely backed up and tossed her other hand, an indication that permission was granted. In two steps, Ganastra was at the exterior cargo door, the powersuited warriors following his every move. He reached in and pulled out a simple metal box which he placed on the deck. Opening it, he dumped thousands of identical tags onto the floor. "Captain Quillan," flashed the next message, "if you accept them, walk over to the pile and thrust your entire arm into it. Seize a tag and punch him as hard as you can." Quillan did so, the tags tinkling as they slid aside. She put everything she had into a lightning punch to his stomach. He grunted, but otherwise remained still. "All right, Denlom Ganastra, your terms are accepted. For the present time, your crew will be quartered where they are." Quillan turned to point at Witchiepoo. "You will answer to that human until you receive further instructions from me or Commander Nine." She hiked a thumb at Alice. "Am I clear?" "Captain, although we pledged ourselves to you, don't speak to us as you would a pup-ling. We are not stupid. And, as I was in command of the Imperial Fleet, I do not take orders from an underling...especially a WOMAN." Alice looped a forearm around Krystine's neck as the latter took a step toward the Mongan, fists clenched. "Please allow Captain Quillan to handle the proceedings, Flight Leader," she murmured into Witchiepoo's ear, at the same time transmitting a message to the smartgoggles. "It is a test, Captain Quillan. Their race regards both sexes to be extremely capable and equal, if properly trained." "Now, you listen to me, you ugly motherfucker," Quillan's voice dripped with venom. "You're in MY space, on MY ship, standing in front of ME. I'll speak to you any way I fucking well want to. You got that, shithead? Either you listen to me and do what I fucking say, or I alert the Mongan Empire AND the goddamn Alliance as to your whereabouts. I wonder who would get here first and if there would be anything left of your ship worth salvaging? I imagine information like that would be worth quite a bit." Ganastra let out a belly laugh, rows of silver teeth gleaming. "Very well done, Captain Margoles," he said, smiling his silver-toothed smile. "With your permission, I'll return to my ship and move it closer to the station." He stuck out a huge hand for Quillan to shake. Her own hand disappeared inside his as he gently applied pressure, then bowed and turned to clamber back into the fighter. ---------------------------------------- The Man-O-War, redesignated PM OVERLORD, had assumed a slow orbit of Purgatory at a distance five thousand miles. In fits and spurts, the newly appointed Mongan pirates arrived and filtered through the station toward the recruiting center for processing, drawing looks of concern from the populace. The Mongans ignored the whispers and pointings, being well trained to follow the orders of their superiors. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 10 Quillan sat in Hell's office, discussing the aborted station-fold. "Captain-Ma'am," he rumbled softly, Quillan was one of three people who were capable of humbling him, "I'm not the engineering type, so maybe I'm missin' the point, but I just don't see how it's possible to fold Purgatory and everything in it, including the PINK MIST, to a point on the other side of the Alliance territory." He shook his head. "I know all those Fold Generators are connected to each other, but, little I DO know is that wires and fiber optic cables have varying resistances. And..." He shrugged, at a loss for further words. "And it works great on PINK MIST with a single generator, but how do you get eighty of them to go off at the same time?" Quillan asked, smiling. Hell nodded. "Do you want the long or short version, Mister Mansberg?" "Short, please." "Magic." She grinned as she toyed with her shoulder-length hair. "The long version involves phase variances, quantum mechanics, particle theory, expanding phase bubbles, and a lot of prayer." He chuckled. "I'll take your word for it, Ma'am." He glanced down at his desk and read a text message from his receptionist. "They're here, Captain." He said, thumbing a button to open the door. Into the office strode Charleen, Amanda the Parrot striding alongside her with head held high. Quillan was pleased to see that the little brown-haired lieutenant was no longer afraid of her own shadow. Next came Alice, accompanied by one of the stations' small spherical messenger bots, a portrait of an armored girl holding a sword gracing the front of it. "Mes amis," said Alice, through her ever present half-smile. "Please do me the honor of acknowledging the Maid of Purgatoire, as she wishes to be known, Salli d' Arc." A letter opener sized sword extended through a small slit on the ball. "Vive le Purgatoire!" came Salli's chipper voice. Quillan sucked her lower lip and bit down hard enough to draw blood in order to keep her composure. Hell's head thunked the desk. A few others of the core command group entered and seated themselves around the conference table. "Ladies and gentlemen," began Quillan, "as you all know, we now have a rogue faction of the Mongan Empire with us. They brought the latest and greatest of the Mongan fleet with them." Specter's hand went up. "Captain, how can we be assured that they're not just gathering intel on our strengths and weaknesses? I was present in the bay when they surrendered, but how do we know it's not a trap?" Quillan, still standing, leaned forward onto the polished table and looked Specter in the eye. "Major, would you give your life for the Marauders?" she asked, levelly. "Regardless of my pay scale, Madame, the Marauders are my family and I would willingly die for any one of them." "That's what I thought, my good man," she replied, toying with her shoulder-length hair. "And why is that? Why would you die for that guy who just signed on yesterday? After all, you've never seen him before and don't even know who he is. I speak generally, of course, but you take my meaning." "As I just said, Captain," he said, shifting a bit uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't sure he liked where this was going. "He's family. By signing on with the Marauders, he automatically became one of us. But, I don't see what my original question has to do with this." "Does his background matter? Do you care why he signed on?" She removed her hands from the table and relaxed a little. "I certainly don't. He's under our protection, now. If he happens to fuck up, he will be dealt with accordingly. If he turns out to be a stellar crewmember, he is rewarded accordingly. Do you understand where this is leading?" Amanda's hand shot up before the major could answer. "Captain, by surrendering, the Mongans essentially made themselves your slaves, didn't they?" At the word, "slave," several gasps were heard; Quillan hated the word. "No, Lieutenant, they are not servants. They have willingly pledged their lives to me. There's a huge difference. I'm their acknowledged potentate. Does that make more sense? Think of pledging your heart and soul and faith and loyalty to a single person, and refusing to acknowledge anyone or anything else as your leader. That's what they've done. I have more reason to trust THEM than to trust that guy who signed up yesterday. Is that a better explanation?" Nods all around. "Vive le Purgatoire!" "There's a perfect example of commitment," said Quillan, pointing at Salli. "Joan of Arc. I suggest you all read up on her fervor and dedication." "Okay, Captain, I get it," said Specter, "But, why us? They could obliterate this station with a proverbial sneeze, and, no reflection on your abilities to lead, but their head honcho was in charge of an entire fleet." "In charge of an entire fleet..." mused Quillan, "as I am now?" She hiked a thumb over her shoulder toward Hell as a signal. He again thumbed the button on his desk to open his office door. In walked the largest Mongan any of them had ever seen. "This is Captain Denlom Ganastra, in command of the newest addition to the PM arsenal, the OVERLORD. You are to show him the courtesy due his rank and follow his orders, if required. He and I have spoken at length and he is well-versed in the machinations of this fleet. Feel free to ask any questions you wish of him. He'll either answer them, or he won't. Captain Ganastra, the floor is yours." The monstrous orange-skinned Mongan surveyed the room as if he was assessing a battlespace. "I was listening to your questions while I waited in the outer office. Our oaths of fealty are not taken lightly by us and are unshakable. Those who were aboard the ship when we committed treason were given the option of joining my crew, or using an escape capsule. Those who left were unhindered. Those who stayed were told what to expect, whereupon a few more left. "I will disclose the reasoning behind our actions. "The Mongan Royal Family is unstable. There is much infighting and backstabbing among the royals. They all wish absolute control over the empire. I was reporting to no less than five of the Royal Family, each with his or her own agenda. Quite frankly, in your terms, I was fed up with the bullshit. "If the Alliance simply defends itself, the Empire will eventually overwhelm them. If the Alliance counterattacks, they will fall. If they strike first, they will win in approximately three years' time...without my help. If they strike first WITH my help, they will win in approximately six months. If The Captain were to decide to merely sit out the conflict and kowtow to the winner, that would be her decision. She has informed me otherwise. I have also been in contact with the former chief of the Tactical Fleet who agreed to join forces with me. Our combined skills can very easily sway the impending war in either direction. "The Captain tells me that we fight for the Alliance. I fight for The Captain. "As to the reasoning behind choosing to join this particular outfit. When our outpost was destroyed and the distress signal sent out, we arrived less than three hours after receiving it. There was destruction on both sides, yes, but the destruction wrought to our ships was more than considerable. We found no survivors. After review of video information retrieved from the desturction, it was a simple to figure out who was responsible. I also had a chance to view video of your actions on Manaleb IV. "Since we committed treason by killing Princess Valmaja and taking her ship by force, we were outlaws without the benefit of a safe port of call. All of my crew agreed that seeking out our enemy and submitting to her will was the best action. We are not weak. Submission does not mean that we throw our lives away on her whim, as was the case under the Empire." ---------------------------------------- Diplomacy was never TacCom's cup of tea. Tactical Command was an, "all or nothing," branch of the Alliance; usually committing dozens of ships to the task at hand in order to get the job done. Therefore, Louisa Daltoni wasn't much of a talker. Her basic philosophy was, "kick their asses and leave the bodies to rot." Charleen Wilkerson, on the other hand, while preferring to chew through the opposition like a pack of jackals through a deer carcass, had spent almost thirty years in the Alliance military and knew when to bend. Denlom Ganastra had attained his status as Royal Fleet Master of the Mongan Empire through guile, cunning, and force of will. Quillan had formed a small task force comprised of these three individuals. Their sole purpose, for the immediate future, was to sway the Alliance military to see the benefits of using a mercenary force with enough ships and firepower to destroy half a planet. Together in the Cemetery, they sat and drafted a proposal; three proposals, actually. The first, to be addressed directly to the President, gave a detailed view of the capabilities and possible objectives of the Marauders and their own allies. It then went into great detail of the Mongan strengths and weaknesses, and outlined the reasoning behind a first strike on the Empire. The last paragraph listed the documented offenses of the President and let it be known in no uncertain terms that this information could be disseminated at any time. Attached were several video recordings of Quillan's dealings with the President. Damning evidence, indeed. The second, addressed to MilCom, JudCom (Judicial Command) and TacCom, contained a brief synopsis of the letter to the President, along with instructions on how to achieve victory over the Mongans. It conveniently left out details of the Presidential offenses, but contained recordings and previous messages about the acquisition of the THOMAS A. PARKER and the promises made in the initial negotiations (in case anyone forgot). The third, to be sent to NewsCom, was a letter of intent and scaled-down version of the previous letters along with a very vague reference to the President's offenses. The whole package was sent to Quillan and Alice for final approval. The three looked at each other, grinned, raised their glasses in a toast to each other, and sat back to contemplate the future. ---------------------------------------- By now, there was no hiding the fact that Quillan was a pirate and Purgatory was her base. As word filtered through her fan club, many people dropped their memberships while condemning their former idol for her criminal practices. The fact that she was working for the Alliance didn't matter. It was still reprehensible in their minds. More people joined the fan club, though, citing her devotion to the Alliance and seeing a need for someone to operate, "outside the law." The Marauder ranks swelled almost overnight. Mostly ex-military and thrillseeking wannabes. Quillan found it all a bit curious that people were volunteering their own ships to a person they hardly knew or didn't know at all. By ones and twos and fifteens, they came. When it had been disclosed that Purgatory was now off limits to the Alliance, more than a few captains and crew had pointedly ignored the mandate and continued to patronize the station in support. At first, the Alliance had actively sought to court martial these souls, but soon gave up and looked the other way, much to the chagrin of the President. After all, Purgatory was the one place where race, creed, social status, or sexuality didn't matter; as long as they didn't get too rambunctious, there was no trouble. ---------------------------------------- DELTA 2 SECURE PROTOCOL. MESSAGE DEEMED NOT CRITICAL TO: CAPTAIN QUILLAN S. MARGOLES FROM: GERALD B. CUTHERTSON, ALLIANCE PRESIDENT's Captain, please accept my heartfelt apologies for my behavior while aboard your space station. I'm quite certain that you understand the pressures involved with the command of several races and systems. Per your communique's to the various fleet commands, as well as myself, this is a very feasible plan. This plan has been reviewed by several levels of Alliance tacticians and authorized by Congressional and Senatorial approval. Please designate a liaison for purposes of carrying out this plan and contact MilCom for instructions. Best, G.B. Cuthbertson ---------------------------------------- The time had come. Zero hour. The direct assault on the Mongan Empire was about to commence. Charleen, in command of the EXETER and her complement of fifty tightly packed fighters, warped out along with fifty-two other ships of all types, mostly ragtag decommissioned dreadnaughts and missile carriers. Their destination was a small planet on the far side of the Mongan Empire. They met light resistance as they neatly and quickly destroyed every Mongan ship above the atmosphere. They had surrounded the planet and picked off the stragglers one by one. At the same time, three squadrons of Alliance ships surrounded and destroyed three small Mongan listening posts at various points near the edge of Alliance territory. Responding in true Mongan fashion, the Empire dispatched most of their fleet to deal with these problems; the wolfpack mentality of the Mongan Empire was to be their undoing. After all, no one would dare to attack the very heart of the Mongan Empire. Their home system was safe. Wrong. The bulk of the PM Marauders and a few thousand Alliance ships were in high warp toward Monga-Actual, every communications jammer and defensive measure active at high power. This insured disruption of the Mongan sensor nets. The co-ordination effort needed to put almost ninety thousand ships in precise spots in differing systems at precise times while maintaining total secrecy was massive. Military Command, the branch under which fell the intelligence arm, had conducted intense investigations and background checks of every member of the Alliance from the President down to the maintenance personnel in charge of the cleaning bots. Information was withheld from even ship's captains, only citing the need to be on standby for immediate action. Leaves were canceled and troops recalled in order to achieve this goal. With the Mongan fleet virtually quartered, and only a light defense force protecting the home system, a slaughter ensued. ---------------------------------------- The PINK MIST winked into the fight, her cannon, missiles, and hammerpoint plasma lasers filling the space around her with high precision death. On Purgatory, he was Hell. On board the PINK MIST, he was Muffin. He had left no doubt in Quillan's mind that he would quit his job as administrator of the station if he wasn't allowed to resume his duties as gunner for this fight. He became one with his weapons. His fingers once again flew over the pads in his armrests as he concentrated fire on an enemy destroyer. Eyes glued to the huge viewscreen before him, his peripheral vision picked up a pair of Mongan fighters dancing and dodging their way into attack position on the PINK MIST. With his main focus on the destroyer, he flicked a finger. A hammerpoint turret responded by strafing the offenders and literally blowing the craft out from under the pilots. High-speed momentum carried the two pilots directly into the side of the ship. Splat. "Mister Jeffers, come right ninety-degrees," Quillan ordered, the helmsman echoing her orders to prevent mistakes, "down angle sixty degrees. See that Man-O-War Disk? Chase that motherfucker. He's ours. All weapons, prepare to unload on that bitch." All around, fighter chased fighter. Laser bolts crisscrossed in a spectacular, if extremely deadly light show. The Man-O-War disk in question, was commanded by the new Royal Fleet Master. This poor guy had no idea what he was doing. He had warped into the fight shortly after the attack on the Mongan homeworld began, separated his ship into the seven deadly disks and was now trying to hightail it out of the fight, leaving his fleet in the lurch. He needed a run-up of at least ten miles of uninterrupted space to attain warp speed. There was too much sheer crap in his way. His shields merely pushed the smaller ships out of his way as he bulled his way through. He couldn't fire, either, as he needed every volt available to him to power the warp engine. He was dead meat. The PINK MIST, following at a distance of five hundred miles, opened up with everything she had. Missiles, hard-slugs, lasers, microwave tightbeams: anything and everything was being thrown at the disk to weaken the shields. If they could disable her for later salvage... "Captain Quillan, the Man-O-War's rear shields are at ninety percent, now eighty, now seventy," purred Alice as her sensors measured a steady decrease. As the shield power dropped below ten percent, she called out each single digit in rapid succession. When she called out that shields were at one percent, Quillan triggered a, "slippery field" hard slug. The projectile was over a foot in diameter and carefully aimed directly at the center-rear of the fleeing vessel. The bowling ball-sized tritanium round blasted into the reactor housing less than one billionth of a second before the behemoth entered warp. "Motherfucker!" shouted Quillan. "Did we hit it?" "It was a direct hit, Captain. That vessel's reactor operates much the same as ours. Assuming the round pierced the hull, and we can safely make that assumption, the reactor automatically shut down. Without the reactor online, the ship cannot engage the sublight protocols, Captain Quillan," said Alice. "Since the ship is traveling faster than the speed of light, its momentum will carry it at that speed for a long time. It will have to slow down naturally." Since there was no air friction to slow the mighty ship, it would be relying on various space particles and planetary gravity wells to eventually drop into normal space. "Slow down naturally..." mused the redhead. "And how long will that take?" "About four hundred years." Holy shit. ---------------------------------------- After the assault on the listening post, Charleen's group waited until the first of the Mongan's backup fleet arrived, ripped the first few ships to shreds, dropped a few proximity-fused dirty bombs into the wreckage and warped out to rendezvous with one of the Alliance attack groups. Together, they warped from system to system within the Mongan Empire, destroying whatever they found. Lightning strikes and emergency warpouts were the order of business. Occasionally, small groups of Alliance ships would drop from warp, wait for a few hours until they were assured that they had been detected by enemy sensors and that a squadron was on its way, then warp out in a new direction just as the enemy showed up. Cat and mouse. Hit and fade. ---------------------------------------- Debris from both sides rained upon the planet below for a week afterward. Once the space around the Mongan homeworld had been cleared, Hitchcock's Horrors and Specter's Saints commenced their Thirty Mile Drops. Their own numbers had grown immensely to over two thousand powered armor drivers. With a five mile range to their hard-slug cannon, a one mile range to the smaller, rotary miniguns and precision hard-slug throwers, and a half mile range on their lasers, the powersuits commenced a sterilization of the entire planet. The powersuits landed arranged in circles, firing outward. Resistance at the drop sites was fierce, but the powersuited warriors fired and blasted everything in sight as their circles expanded, more suits dropping into the cleared areas and running to augment the firepower. Eventually, the circles became arcs which then flattened into roughly straight lines. The lines spanned coast to coast of the main continent on Monga-Actual, a distance of half a mile between suits, and began the systematic obliteration of every living thing. Every leaf, twig, bug, bird, fish, and Mongan. Scorched earth. One mile behind the first suits was a second line, with the third a mile behind that one. When the first line needed resupply, they simply stopped where they were, the other two lines walking right past. With the first line now safe, the resupply ships could do their jobs, as well as giving the drivers a well-deserved break, while a squadron of fighters owned the airspace overhead, and the Meat Squad provided token ground security. Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 10 Every spaceworthy ship on Monga-Actual had been put into service in an attempt to ferry the residents offplanet. This was a very bad move, indeed, for the Alliance was waiting and picked off the stragglers one by one. By the fourth week of the sterilization of the planet, the air had grown too thin and toxic for the Meat Squad, so they were evacuated and replaced with combat drones. The planet was dead, but the Mongan Royalty refused to capitulate, having slipped away during the initial action. Other systems and planets were undergoing virtually identical scenarios throughout the Empire The Alliance suffered heavy damages, as well the Marauders. The EXETER's right side was completely torn off by an out-of-control Mongan battlefrigate. She lost almost a third of her crew, but was able to limp back to Purgatory for repair. The damage to her body caused Salli to ramp up her ferocity, whereupon she interfaced with as many Mongan computers as she could and force them to open their doors to outside space. On their way to rendezvous with an Alliance strike group, forty five ships belonging to the Marauders were forced from warp by an ambush and completely ripped apart. They managed to send out a distress call, which was answered too late by a massive Alliance force led by the Conorri Battle-Killer MORT D'ARTUR. Six months and one week after hostilities began, His Royal Imperator Gomlo Valmaja, emperor of the now-devastated Mongan Empire, contacted Alliance President Cuthbertson to request an end to the war. Overall, the Alliance had trashed ninety one solar systems. Total Mongan citizenry dead was close to two-hundred billion, with its fleet reduced to a mere ten percent of its former might. The Alliance herself had lost over twenty thousand of the ninety thousand ships initially engaged. Almost a million Alliance and Marauder souls were lost. ---------------------------------------- A new, fairly large hill had seemingly emerged from the ground overnight, a few hundred miles from the colony on Katham VIII. Alice had remotely piloted the HAWK'S WING down to the planet, a load of construction- and heavy-lifting bots aboard. Their mission was to dig a hole large enough for the PINK MIST to set down in, and once the dreadnaught was nestled snugly, cover her with the soil, topping the whole thing with the grassy sod. The massive main viewport, as well as a few smaller, windows were left visible. A small ramp was built down to the first hangar bay as a driveway for small utility cargo craft. The upper pedestrian hatches were level with the ground outside. ---------------------------------------- Alice, carrying a small tray of food and drink, walked up the hill and gently sat on the ground beside Quillan. Laying the tray on the ground, she reached to stroke Quillan's waist-length gray hair, streaked with red, kissing her lightly on the cheek as the latter watched the sun set. "Thirty years today, Quillan," she purred, flipping her own gray hair out of her face. "You never did get your hair cut."