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.

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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.

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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

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"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.

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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.

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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.

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"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.

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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."