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!

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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.

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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

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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..."

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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.

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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.

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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.

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"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."

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"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.

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"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."

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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.