Tales of the "pin Mist"

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.

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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.

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"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!"

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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.

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"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."

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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."

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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.