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.