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."

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.