Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 05

Two days' easy cruising put the PINK MIST back in Alliance territory. They had assumed a lazy orbit around a small planet which had an unbreathable atmosphere comprised mainly of carbon dioxide along with a few trace elements. Nasty and perfect. The crew spent the days teaching as well as learning the complex systems of the Dreadnaught.

Just before the docking clamps had released the PINK MIST from Purgatory, Alice's avatar made one more unimpeded cyber-run. She wasn't even detected. Fifty one milliseconds.

The fighters, now up to their full complement of fifty, had all been modified by the techbots and the contractors while at the station. Now, they dodged and darted around the huge ship like fireflies in simulated attack games. They worked with the gunnery crews, acting as targets and simulating assaults on the Dreadnaught; similar to the Lone Wolf games they had played around Purgatory.

Hitchcock's Horrors and Specter's Saints used the lower levels of the ship to practice close quarter assault tactics, along with speed drills...they ran headlong down corridors and did their best not slam into the walls at the far end.

Commanded by a gruff, lanky former Stellar Marine named Don Rathberger, the "Meat Squad," those whom Charleen had termed, "throwaways," joined in these games to hone their skills and tactics: squad light assaults, room clearing, and close quarters battle. Occasionally, one would purposely step in front of a powered suit as it thundered down the corridor, the PS driver instructed to avoid them at all costs rather than run over them, as normally would be done on the field of battle.

Quillan stood with hands on hips as she watched the three groups working to become a cohesive unit.

"SPECTER! HITCHCOCK! RATHBERGER!" she yelled, unable to pick them out of the melee. "FRONT AND CENTER!"

A powered suit dropped the meat body in its grasp, turned and ran toward the captain, pursued closely by a fully geared combat soldier. From the other end of the hallway, two huge thuds were heard as a pair of armored suits were roughly shoved out of the way so a third could get past and run to the captain, as well.

Once clear of the mayhem surrounding them, the faceplates on the huge powered armor suits went up, revealing the faces of the two mercenary commanders. Don took off his face-protected helmet.

"Well, guys?" she asked. "How are drills coming along?"

Rathberger rolled a sore shoulder and sniffed a small trickle of blood beneath his nose. He'd been thrown into a wall.

"Overall, they're looking pretty damn good, Cap'n," he said. "Always have the assholes and the 'needs improvement' crowd, but I'd take 'em all into a fight." He spat a glob of blood on the deck, frowning as a tooth was seen in the puddle. He bent to pick it up, stuffed it in a pocket. "I'll take care of this later."

"You'll take care of it now," Quillan replied coolly, hiking a thumb over her shoulder at the elevator. He sighed and headed off to the medical bay. "We're not in combat."

Watching him go, Specter remarked, "You've got to admire his commitment, Captain."

"Indeed, I do," she turned to look up at the two suited warriors. "But, during practice runs, we can afford a bit of leeway. How are your troopers doing in these things?"

Hitchcock let out a belly laugh.

"Captain," he said, humor in his voice, "some of mine don't want to get out of them. After some of the pure shitsuits we've been in, these are four room apt-cubes. They've taken to them and can hold up against the hottest suit on the market...hands down. The Horrors can kick ass in anything that moves."

"While I don't share his aptitude for embellishment, Captain," said Specter, "I will also concur that my troops are perfectly capable in these suits."

"Great!" Quillan smiled, narrowing her eyes. "Ever done TMD's in a never-tested suit?"

The Thirty Mile Drop, or TMD, was designed to minimize shuttle craft usage, as well as get a powered soldier onto a planet as quickly as possible. In combat scenarios, the dropship would assume a low orbit, moving as rapidly as possible around a planet in order to be harder to hit with missiles or lasers. The suits would then fire their own thrusters to achieve the proper trajectory for entry into a breathable atmosphere and join up with squadmates. Since there was almost no oxygen present on this planet, the suits would fall virtually straight down.

Each suit's own computer would control descent rate, tactical formation and, most importantly, landing procedures.

Quillan sat in her captain's chair, Alice beside her, both staring at the large viewscreen which dominated the front wall. The screen displayed several views around the PINK MIST, in one corner showing the powered armor bay, it's huge door open to space.

Six rows of four columns of the powered suits were spaced equidistant in the center of the bay.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "Lifesigns are being monitored closely. If an abort is called for any reason, you will have exactly one second before your suits lock and emergency thrusters will bring you back up to the ship.

"If there is anyone who does not wish to take part in this exercise, simply break formation and move back against an interior bulkhead. Remember, these suits are experimental and you don't get paid if you're dead. There will be zero repercussions if you decide against this exercise.

"I will give you sixty seconds to determine if you want to trust your life to an experiment. The clock begins now."

The suits all stood immobile in the bay.

Fifteen seconds.

A figure from Hitchcock's Horrors stepped out of line, turned to the camera, saluted smartly, and strode to stand next to the wall.

Thirty seconds.

None moved.

Forty five seconds.

Two suits from Specter's Saints stepped out, saluted, and joined the one from Hitchcock's Horrors.

Sixty seconds.

"Your time has expired. Lieutenant Mansberg is now your drop officer."

She sat back as Muffin's bass rumble sounded around the bridge.

"Chase craft, report when ready."

"Chase craft, ready," came the acknowledgment from the four fighter craft who would watch the powered armor fall to the ground, thirty miles below.

"Central Comm, report when ready."

"Central Comm is ready, Drop Officer." Muffin's deep voice responded from the communication station, Amanda absorbed in monitoring all frequencies at once.

"Warriors, report when ready."

"Horrors ready."

"Saints ready."

"All stations report as ready. Attention all PM flights, clear the area around the drop bay. Warriors, stand in the door."

Charleen held her breath as she stood next to Amanda, her eyes riveted on the screen, watching the suits move to the very brink of nothingness.

"Ready drop in five...four...three...two...one...drop...drop...drop."

At the command, the first suits in line simply stepped off the edge and were instantly gone as gravity took over, the next row of suits stepping forward to take their places at the edge. One by one, the rows dwindled to zero.

Muffin turned in his seat to face Quillan.

"All warriors are away, ma'am," he reported.

The maneuvering jets of the powered armor turned them to a head-down position so the drivers were better able to gauge the planet below and make minor course adjustments of their own, overriding the computer's suggested trajectory. At this altitude without the aid of visual enhancements, all they could make out were a few seas and oceans delineated by land. As they dropped and the terrain grew clearer, they could make out large boulders and mountains. A probe sent ahead of them by two minutes marked their landing zone and fed a hazy gray video to the suits of the surrounding area. A decent spot to land; at least none of the rocks were larger than a one-man fighter.

Hitchcock and Specter flipped switches in their suits to activate blinking marker lights, and ordered their respective squads to close formation, queuing on the light. Blips on their heads-up displays showed the squads reacting accordingly.

"Horrors, hard ground in two minutes. Saints, hard ground in two minutes, thirty seconds. Get set," said Muffin. The suits turned upright so they could land on their feet.

Nose down as they followed the suits, the chase craft flipped side ways to fly tight spirals around them.

"PM chase flight," came Skittle's voice, the flight leader, "visibility's getting tight. Glue your eyes to your sensors and open the flight path by five miles. Everyone needs room on this one."

The massive suit's power units were small specialized fusion generators, able to consume most gases and convert the matter into exhaust. In this case, the intakes sucked up the carbon dioxide atmosphere, stripped off the carbon molecules and converted the flammable oxygen molecules into fuel. A double benefit, actually, as the some of the oxygen was pumped into the air supply holding tanks, replacing that used by the warriors. The fuel was ignited, and the powered armor descended on columns of fire. The scene would have been quite spectacular and frightening if anyone was around to see it. The excess carbon matter could either be shunted into a small container for later processing by the ship overhead, or in this case, simply vented, leaving a fine gray trail of particles.

Massive thumps and reverberations as the suits hit the ground, the thrusters shutting off as soon as they sensed the relief of weight.

"Horrors, report," ordered Hitchcock tersely, turning to look around the gloomy hazy area. Other suits landed near him and reports from his unit indicated that all had made it safely.

"Saints, report," came Specter's voice. He too looked around, his radar screen indicating that Hitchcock's Horrors were a half mile distant. Not shabby for dropping from a height of thirty miles. He checked the clock and saw that the entire drop had taken just under thirteen minutes.

Aboard PINK MIST, Hitchcock's, then Specter's voices emanated from a small brown-eyed, brown-haired girl saying that all suits were on the ground, drivers were safe, and the Thirty Mile Drop could be considered a success.

While on the planet, the warriors were given a few extra hours to practice maneuvers and mock battles. Any chance to test suits and abilities.

MESSAGE BEGINS

BREAK BREAK BREAK

BEGIN ENCRYPT PROTOCOL BETA 2

CHECK SECURE

TO: CAPTAIN, PINK MIST

FROM: MILCOM ACTUAL

You told us two (2) weeks and it's been 12 days. Ready? Two items are in your sector.

Please respond with ready status as soon as possible.

CLEAR CLEAR CLEAR

MESSAGE ENDS

MESSAGE BEGIN

ALL CHANNELS

Send it any time you're ready, hotshot. Kisses.

MESSAGE ENDS

FLASHPOINT BREAK BREAK BREAK

BEGIN ENCRYPT PROTOCOL THETA 1

CHECK SECURE

TO: CAPTAIN, PINK MIST

FROM: MILCOM ACTUAL

Captain Margoles, this mission is classed as TARGETS OF OPPORTUNITY. Medium priority. Extremely High Risk.

There are two Mongan Pitbull Class Carriers near you.

Carrier number one codenamed "Emperor Moth."

Carrier number two codenamed "Gypsy Moth."

Total destruction of both would be ideal. Current heading is toward Katham system at just under light speed. It would be best not to let them get within strike range of Katham VIII. They'll arrive at max range in 48 hours.

Coordinates to follow.

No prisoners are expected.

FLASHPOINT CLEAR CLEAR CLEAR

MESSAGE ENDS

Holy shit.

Quillen's mind started working as she read the message.

The typical Mongan Pitbull Class carried between forty and fifty fighters. And there were TWO of them? PINK MIST had an even fifty. The Mongan fighters could outmaneuver any of her own fighters, able to reverse course in the blink of an eye. The armament was light, but Mongans attacked in force and could shred a PM Squadron fighter if given the chance.

Of course, we have the advantage of the powered armor, but those are primarily used for ship boarding and ground assault. Quillan hadn't been trained in close fighter combat or ground tactics. Her expertise was support; piloting and commanding the huge Dreadnaughts. Well, we'll just have to rely on some people with those kinds of experiences.

"Captain," said Charleen succinctly, "you're outta your fucking mind...Ma'am."

Specter and Hitchcock deadpanned each other, then returned their gazes to Quillan.

"For a bunch of pirates, you certainly have no sense of adventure," Quillan said, grinning as she glanced around the room at those assembled. They had bunched into the War Chamber, that small room reserved for the most private of conversations.

Alice stood with her hands loosely behind her back next to Quillan. Charleen was seated with Amanda behind her, hands resting on the XO's shoulders. Krystine and Michelle, callsign Twinkie, leaned against the far wall looking like twins; their arms folded the same way, standing on their left feet with the right leg bent in front, foot resting on its toes. Michelle had visited the medical bay earlier to have her teeth filed to points like her flight leader's.

Major Specter voiced what almost everyone was thinking.

"Captain," he began, clipped Martian accent very evident. "While we DID, in fact, sign on as pirates, we did not sign on for suicide runs. They are bigger, stronger, and faster than we are. Perhaps if we had three or four dozen powered suits instead of the two dozen we have..." Hitchcock cut him off.

"What Major Potato is saying, ma'am, is that we can do it with the proper support," the last two words said with a glare at Specter. "Once we get aboard those ships, we'll have null perspiration emptying them out. The trick is getting there."

Colonel Hitchcock's voice sounded from directly behind Charleen. "The trick is getting there."

Charleen leaned her head back to look up at Amanda with a grin, reaching to squeeze her hand reassuringly.

Silent until now, Muffin spoke up, his voice a deep basso rumble, reminding some of an active volcano.

"We have better than state-of-the-art firepower. You people are acting like you're doing it all yourselves. We're supposed to be a fucking team, here; need ta start actin' like it. I guarantee that my guns can shoot the lint off your suits without leaving a mark. I ain't exactly been sitting on my ass the past two weeks. I've been reading and tweaking these things. Take a piece of chalk with you and mark where you want me to punch a hole." He winked at the captain.

Quillan smiled and winked back at him.

"I have the basics for a plan of attack. I'll outline it and then we can laser out the details."

She drew a circle with her finger in the air over the table, a holographic three dimensional tactical bubblemap forming, and voiced her idea. Lightbulbs started coming on in their heads and everyone made suggestions to fine tune the assault.

This was going to be tough. Very tough. If they pulled it off, though, they would all be very wealthy indeed.

After their initial lovemaking, Alice exploring and pleasing Quillan until the latter could barely breathe, the pair had talked at length about Alice's feelings for Quillan. Quillan had admitted that she felt a certain fondness for the cyborg, but wasn't to the "love" stage quite yet. Alice, still getting used to her sentience, had reacted as most any smitten person would: a combination of disappointment mixed with the desire to be close to the object of her affection along with a certain hopefulness. All of the data she had collected from Tri-D movies, romance databases and the Interstellar Network suggested that she wait, keep acting as she normally would, and make damn sure to keep her private life separate from her professional life.

For most people, the last part would take a conscious effort of will. Over time, the separation of these "lives" would become second-nature. Alice had the benefit of having a computer for a brain; she could turn her professionalism on and off as easily as flipping a light switch. The hard part was figuring out WHEN to do it. The more interaction she had with Quillan and several others with this ability, the more she was able to distinguish between the two.

In days of yore, the watch commander of a ship never left the bridge except in extreme circumstances or unless relieved by the replacement watch commander. With the computer closely monitoring things, and since this wasn't the military, more leeway was given.

Charleen, the watch commander, and Amanda walked hand in hand down the wide hallway in the direction of the ship's laundry, Amanda happily relating a tale of winning the Earth-Actual Intercontinental Communications Ribbon by precisely and properly categorizing, listing, and prioritizing six thousand, eight hundred and ninety one vocal signals which had been transmitted simultaneously. To an ordinary person, even to pick out two or three would have been a daunting task. She had correctly identified almost seven thousand individual voices and the words they had spoken. At the same time.

Amanda had come a long way since her rescue from Purgatory's Cemetery. She was still a little skittish around most of the crew, but not quite as shy, especially if Charleen or Muffin were with her.

A head topped with purple hair suddenly appeared in her path as Jesse leaned out the door of the laundry room. Startled, Amanda yelped and scampered behind Charleen to huddle as close as she could get and bury her face in the XO's back.

"Hi, Admiral!" Jesse greeted. "I heard you coming...um..." He noted the frightened Amanda peeking from behind the commander and stepped into the hall, straightening and perching a pair of purple flower-framed glasses on his nose. Now dressed completely in a shiny purple lame' jumpsuit with matching purple kneeboots, Jesse smiled toothily at Amanda who stared back, wide-eyed, not knowing what to make of him.

"Oh, you are the ca-YUTEST little thing! I didn't mean to scare you with my mean, old, nasty self! I just finished laundering, pressing, and..." He giggled, looking back and forth between the women as he spoke. "...altering the new uniforms. That big, tall, huge man was THE hardest to fit! I had to create a whole new...area, if you know what I mean, in the crotchal region to accommodate his rather large..." Jesse's eyes shot up and down the empty corridor and he leaned in conspiratorially to stage whisper, "...cock. That man is sooooo big! I wouldn't mind getting him alone and doing a little bit of closer examination, if you get my drift. Commander, I have your uniforms all ready for you to put your massive tits into and for this ca-YUTE little thing to put her ca-YUTE little self into. If you two would care to come inside and try them on? I don't think you'll have aaaannnny problems at all."

He sauntered back into the laundry room without waiting for a reply, his butt swinging like a pendulum. Charleen wondered if he'd taken a breath during that whole monologue.

In Quillan's quarters, soft sighs were coming from Alice. Just as she had explored Quillan's body the other day, so Quillan was exploring hers.

Alice lay on her back on the bed, head on a soft pillow, yellow hair spilled around her like a silken halo. Her arms were slack and she fought the urge to rub Quillan's back or fondle her lover's breasts. She had been instructed to just lie still and experience the pleasure.

Quillan, situated on her knees on the bed next to Alice and supported by one arm, planted small tender kisses all over Alice's face; taking her time and care to cover every inch of the beautiful face and memorize every detail and nuance of flavor and scent of the incredible woman. Her free hand moved over the voluptuous totally nude body as gently as a feather on the breeze, never making full contact, barely skimming.

She gently kissed Alice's full lips, parting her own slightly, receiving a parting of Alice's lips, and slowly moved her tongue inside that perfect mouth to find the flesh within and lightly touch tip to tip. The kiss grew in intensity, tongues pressing closer together, tighter.