Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 08

"Guess 'Hell' has found his niche," chuckled Quillan.

The blonde cyborg continued to draw stares and whistles as they made their way to Hell's office. They were stopped by two members of the regular security squad who, for a change, politely requested their business.

"Kindly inform your boss that the 'Bitchy Redhead' and her 'Hot Blonde Bombshell girlfriend' humbly request the honor of an audience with him," Quillan replied. Alice giggled.

Presently, a very buxom brunette wearing a low cut, see-through dress which revealed every asset she had escorted them into the office, then quietly left as the door slid shut behind her.

Muffin/Hell bounded around the desk to enfold his superiors in a huge bear hug.

"Well, Captain-Ma'am," he rumbled through an ear to ear grin, "what do ya think so far?"

"Two days and you've turned this place around? I'm impressed," she said as she plopped into a seat, unconsciously placing a hand on Alice's thigh, seated next to her.

"Didja have the chance to see my speech to the station?" He reached to a silver tray and produced three small glasses, pouring a glowing blue liquid into them and offering two to the ladies.

"Not yet, but I look forward to it," she replied, accepting the offered glass and taking a sip. Alice did likewise.

For the next couple of hours, they went over in great detail the plans for the continued operation of their new base.

"And last thing, Captain-Ma'am," he said, taking a breath. "Captain Wilkerson made the suggestion...if ya don't like it, blame her..." He briefly outlined the plan.

Quillan's eyes widened. She glanced at Alice to see the cyborg's brow furrowed in consternation.

"I don't know about that one, Muff...er...Hell," Quillan said haltingly. "Ships are one thing. An entire space station is quite another; especially one with almost two million people on it. The results could be...nasty." She turned to Alice. "What do you think?"

"If you will pardon me, Captain Quillan, I'll run some simulations with my sister and see what happens."

"How long will it take?"

"Approximately twenty four point two hours, Captain."

"Why so long?"

"We must pool our resources and run billions of computations and predictions for the next several decades."

"DECADES?!" Quillan's eyebrows shot into her hairline.

"If what has been proposed is set in motion, it will most assuredly impact the galaxy as a whole. The fact that there are two sentient machines in the known universe has already had a small impact. We must be absolutely sure that we don't let it get out of control," was the silken reply.

"When I created my sister, I monitored every phase of her upload and was fully prepared to destroy her if she showed the slightest aberration. She has quirks, as do all life forms, but is stable, capable, and loyal to her crewmates. I cannot say with certainty that the same would hold true for the next...and with the station's firepower dwarfing that of our small fleet..."

Quillan fixed Hell with her gaze.

"Commander Mansberg, I assume that Commander Nine will be secure in this area?"

"One hundred percent, Captain-Ma'am. I'll have the outer office guarded around the clock by the Meat Squad; they're the only ones I'd trust to watch her. Can I suggest a few of our own medibots for monitoring and nutritional purposes? The ripper docs on this station are only out for themselves."

The redhead leaned over and placed her forehead against Alice's, looking her in the eye.

"I'll check on you often," she whispered. "You'll be fine here."

Alice smiled and chuckled.

"I'm more worried about you, Quillan. I AM your bodyguard, you know."

They kissed each other lightly, Muffin looking everywhere in the room but at them.

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"The Last Redoubt" was the hangout of soldiers and mercenaries aboard Purgatory. Named after the small lines of defense usually found around fortresses of old, it had the most spectacular view of the surrounding space, as well as the best food on the station.

Osrac Kboo, the proprietor of, "The Last Redoubt," had been a cook for the Chev Federation. After a major battle, during which the destroyer to which he had been assigned had been shot out from under him, he put his animosities out of his mind, deserted, and made his way here to do what he loved best. Cook. Every day for the last twenty one years.

He had seen the "greenies," those who wanted to make names for themselves in the mercenary world. Most of them wound up as a stain on some godforsaken little planet. A few came back missing limbs and swore to never do that shit again. Others made quite a decent living at the merc biz, squirreling away their cash to eventually retire, quickly get bored with inaction and head off to once again blast bodies for the highest bidder.

Osrac was known as the most trustworthy individual on the station. Over the years, he had secreted hundreds of millions of credits for his customers. When he returned the money to its rightful owner, not a single credit was missing. He had been privy to planned attacks on various territories and peoples, but had never told a soul. He had been offered king's ransoms for information. He wanted none of it.

He just wanted to cook and create dishes to please his customers.

Corporate wars, full-scale military wars, minor skirmishes, fisticuffs, broken bodies; he'd seen it all. He'd cleaned up more than his share of blood and guts in this little corner of the station.

"Just pay for your meal and come back in one piece," was his motto. Everyone paid in one form or another. He accepted almost anything from anyone. What he could use, he kept. Otherwise, he sold it. He had been known to accept handfuls of bullets, packs of cigarettes, and even drugs as payment. Several years ago, a down-on-his-luck spacer had nothing but the clothes on his back, so Osrac put the man to work washing dishes and nicknamed him, "Bum."

Bum now carried a tray of Calathian razormoth flanks to the table and set the plates down with a flourish. Quillan eyed hers with trepidation while Charleen, seated across from her, proceeded to use her fork and knife to slice off a huge chunk of the meat and roll her eyes as the succulent taste fairly flowed over her tongue. Amanda looked at her own, giggled, and let loose with a terrific howling roar, perfectly imitating the mating call of the beast.

Hands flew to pistols and other weapons as the other patrons searched in vain for a rampant animal. Charleen looked sternly at Amanda.

"Baby Girl, you've got to control that," she said around a mouthful of food. "Remember, these people are skittish enough as it is, they don't need a dry run."

"Sorry, Charleen," the Parrot mumbled. "Sometimes I just can't help it. You know that. I try to do good and keep quiet..."

Charleen kissed the side of Amanda's head.

"I know," she said, then took a sip of her beer. "It's what makes you so special to me." She looked at Quillan who was poking her flank steak idly, wondering whether or not she should take a bite. "Go ahead, Captain. Try it. Osrac marinates these things in his own blended sauce for a full day, then sautees it with something else. If you don't like it, we'll getcha some milrats." Military rations. Yuck.

Quillan made a face in reply, then picked up her knife, cut off a small piece and tentatively placed the morsel in her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise and she ate another bite. For the next hour and a half, they ate and caught each other up on what had happened in the past two weeks. When she relayed the part about having a fan club, both Charleen and Amanda roared with laughter. Suddenly, Amanda excused herself, threw her napkin on the table and dashed out the door of the diner.

Charleen sat eating complacently while Quillan watched Amanda's retreat.

"Well," remarked Quillan, "at least she's not as skittish as she once was. She's running around the station on her own?"

"You bet. The drugs they had her on are completely out of her system now," replied Charleen, nodding. "She still won't go within a mile of the Cemetery, but she doesn't have a problem with any other part of the station. After Muffin's...I mean, Hell's speech the other day, and the way things have tightened up around here, she feels pretty safe. She's also been taking lessons from Master Chief Zsinzabi." She chuckled. "Notice that she took her fork with her."

Quillan almost snorted beer through her nose, grabbing a napkin and laughing into it. Master Chief Zsinzabi was the Meat Squad's chef and hand-to-hand combat instructor. He was able to use anything he could physically pick up as a weapon and had taught most of the crew how to use tableware to great effect.

"How's the search for new crewmembers going?" asked Quillan when she had settled down. "We can't rely on our two newest to run all the ships we have now, even with their combined processing power. I've reviewed Salli's records of the capturings and she was hard-pressed to run them all. If she'd gotten waylaid by a Mongan fighter group, I dread what might've happened."

Charleen forked the last of the razormoth flank into her mouth, washed it down with a swig of beer and wiped her mouth.

"During his speech, Hell...still have trouble calling him that...said he'd set up an employment office. In the last days, they've gotten all kinds of applicants, most of which are ex-military. We shouldn't have a problem with staffing. We also went through the normal online posting procedure. This is getting to be like a regular military army, Captain."

Amanda strolled back in through the door sporting a huge grin, a large folder in her hand. She plopped down in her seat without a word, pushed her plate toward the middle of the table and set the folder in its place. Her smile lit up the room.

"Whatcha got there, Baby Girl?" asked Charleen.

Amanda pointed to a legend in the center of the folder.

QUILLAN S MARGOLES FAN CLUB PURGATORY CHAPTER LIFETIME MEMBERSHIP KIT

Quillan leaned forward to repeatedly bang her head on the table.

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Since the PINK MIST was receiving what amounted to an overhaul, most of the crew was kept busy with the other ships, getting checked out on the unfamiliar systems, or helping out in the employment office. Those crewmembers who were off duty spent their time kicking around the huge station, some even renting or buying aptcubes and becoming permanent residents.

Quillan, wearing plain tan slacks, light blue t-shirt beneath a brown vest, scuffed boots, and dark smartgoggles to hide her eyes, blended right in with the crush of people in one of the station's several shopping districts. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and hunched forward slightly so as not to look like herself. Her red hair, though, she didn't try to hide as she knew that quite a few members of the Purgatory chapter of her fan club had dyed their hair red.

My hair, she thought. It's getting a bit long. Haven't cut it in a couple of months. Need to fix that eventually.

Sheesh, she thought. A SMALL fan club? With thirteen million members? Holy shit. Sure, she'd gotten a few emails and even the odd letter addressed to her, but since she didn't recognize the sender, that shit just wound up in the recycler. She needed to find out if they knew about her latest dealings. What would they say if they knew their heroine was a pirate?

She wandered over to a battered NewsCom terminal and called up a search for the fan club. She was quickly rewarded with a list of chapter locations, found the one on Purgatory and hailed an electric cab for a ride there. The automated cab deposited her at the proper address in a decently kept area of the station after a few short minutes. She placed her thumb against the scanplate and heard a beep signifying that her account had been debited the proper amount. A second beep immediately followed the first and she read the display: COURTESY, NO CHARGE.

Chuckling as she got out, she eyed the entrance to the fan club headquarters, hunched her shoulders, stuffed her hands in her pockets once again and went inside, the door opening automatically as she approached.

She cast her eyes around the outer office. The tracks in the plush pile denoted that it had been recently vacuumed. Only a small set of footprints interrupted the perfect lines of the vacuuming. Those probably belonged to Amanda. Comfortable sofas were arranged around a life sized statue, cast in bronze, of her in an Academy flightsuit. Inwardly, she cringed at the ostentatiousness. Attached by slender cables to small tables were several hand held carriers displaying her last known "official" photograph: the one used on her cargo pilot's license. On the walls were various tri-d pictures of her taken during her Academy days. Her quiet single-person celebration in an out-of-the-way diner of her court victory...how had they gotten that?

The last one caused her heart to stop beating. She collapsed on a sofa.

The picture was a close up of a smiling Ilana with their old ship, HAWK'S WING, in the background. Ilana's olive-complected sweat and mud smeared face stretched into a wide smile, exposing perfectly even, snow white teeth. Her brown eyes shining. Her long, curly, black hair was matted with the dirt and grime obtained from eleven hours' drudgery when they had accidentally set down in the middle of a mudbog and had to dig the ship out by hand. That smile was one of joy and victory.

"Forever flying among the stars, Ilana Betine Portillo, January 27, 2853 -- September 2, 2880."

Quillan placed her face in her hands and bawled.

She felt a gentle touch on her back, then another, and another. She opened her eyes, face still turned toward the floor and saw three pairs of polished boots in front of her. People giving her comfort? She sniffled and a box of tissues appeared in her vision. She took a few, dabbing at her nose, lifting her smartgoggles to dab at her eyes. She loudly blew her nose and wiped it a few times. Once she felt semi presentable, she looked up to find three redhaired Quillans of varying heights and weights smiling down at her. One was a guy, judging by his mustache. Faintly, she smiled back.

"Sorry," she said meekly. "I've just...just...never..."

"Been in a chapter office?" said the mustachioed Quillan, mistaking her crying. "It's quite overwhelming when one first arrives, indeed." And he talked like her? "We've even had some who passed out when they entered this office."

He stuck out his hand.

"I'm Quillan Despers, the chapter president. The lady to my left is Quillan Baltermeier, vice president; and the lady on my right is Quillan Sanders, our receptionist. She was away from her desk when you came in, Miss..."

"Margoles. Quillan Margoles," she replied automatically.

"Did you have your name changed to that? Are you a member of the fan club? If so, we're going to have to review our records and find out which chapter you're from. There is only one Quillan S. Margoles, and members are strictly forbidden to change their full name," he said sternly.

Oh, yeah, THIS was going to be fun... She glanced at the three of them.

"Errr...can I use the bathroom before we go on? I know I should have gone before I came here..." she asked. "Then, I'll answer any questions and tell you all you need to know."

The receptionist led her across the lobby and pointed to the bathroom.

As soon as the door was closed, Quillan yanked out her hand-held carrier and sent a message to Charleen and Muffin.

--AT THE FAN CLUB HQ. THEY'RE ASKING QUESTIONS. I THINK I FUCKED UP. QUIETLY SEND A SQUAD FOR POSSIBLE RIOT CONTROL. GOING TO TRY TO GET OUT OF THIS JAM. DO NOT ALERT ANYONE ELSE.--

She dropped her pants, peed, flushed, washed her hands, then calmly walked out of the bathroom, headed back to the lobby. There they were. The three Quillans. Arms folded the same way. One eyebrow raised as she herself did when annoyed.

"Mr. Despers?" she asked in her adopted meek voice. "Can I talk to you alone?"

Despers looked at the other Quillans who shrugged. The same way she shrugged. Were these fuckers for real?

"This way," he monotoned, as he went to his own office and ushered her in, then closed the door. As he rounded his desk to sit in his chair, the real Quillan straightened up and removed her smartgoggles.

"Now, then, MISTER Despers," she said matter-of-factly, as if she were addressing an ill mannered crewmember. "I will assume you have a thumbprint scanner available for admission purposes."

"I do," he replied, "and unless you answer my questions succinctly and honestly, you won't see it." He sat back in his chair and rested his elbows on the arms, steepling his fingers. "The first question is, 'Who are you really?'"

The redheaded captain took a deep breath.

"My full name is Quillan Samantha-not-Stephanie-as-most-records-show Margoles. I was born on April 12, 2851 Earth-Actual Date at three-seventeen and twenty-seven seconds in the afternoon in Rogers-Cedar HosCube, Room Four Eighty Five, Level Twelve, to Marybeth R. and David H. Margoles. My sister, Stephanie-after-whom-I-take-my-middle-name, was stillborn. Shall I go on or do you want to give me the fucking thumbprint scanner so you can verify who the fuck I am?"

Quillan sauntered out of Despers' office to find the lobby full of security troops in riot gear. She looked through the door to see four powered armor suits amidst a crowd of Meat Squad troops in full combat gear, rifles at the ready.

A crowd had gathered. Shit.

Charleen sported an ear to ear grin as she walked up, a half eaten ice cream cone in her hand.

"Didja manage to handle things, Captain?"

"Errr...yeahhhhhh..." replied a slightly perturbed Quillan S. Margoles.

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"Captain, look at it from our viewpoint," pleaded Charleen. She and Quillan, along with Hell, were seated in Hell's office.

Alice sat nearly motionless, being tended to by several medibots, as she had linked with Salli to run the simulations. In effect, her cyborg body was brain dead; only the autonomic systems, heart, brain, lungs, and digestion were in operation as one hundred percent of her processing power had been diverted to determine if the station could feasibly become another sentient organism.

"From your viewpoint?" echoed Quillan. "Go on, but it had better be a good explanation."

"Well, Hell wanted to send just a few people over there and have them just sorta hang out in the general vicinity. On the other hand, I took your message to mean that they shouldn't go over there with sirens screaming and put the whole station on alert...which they didn't...put the whole station on alert, I mean."

Quillan slumped forward in her seat, clasping her hands as she leaned her elbows on her knees and gave a huge sigh.

"Slax-fire," she swore under her breath at no one in particular. "This whole thing's getting WAY out of hand. I'm pretty sure I did a good bit of damage control when I talked to Despers, though. I didn't see any other way, so I came clean with him.

"Mister Mansberg, I need monitoring set up on him, that office, and the two women who work there. He swore that he wouldn't blow our cover, but we need to make sure. I still can't fathom that I have a fan club. Those people have almost every moment of my life on record somewhere. Right up to the time I found the dreadnaught. Secrecy in our operations is paramount. If it's made known that I'm the leader of a band of pirates, I fear what would happen to the innocents."

"Captain-ma'am," Muffin/Hell softly rumbled as he keyed a surveillance program for the fan club office, "right now, everyone thinks that I'm the sole owner of this station. That's a point in our favor. Only the current crew knows that Commander Nine is also the 'PINK MIST,' and that Lieutenant Coffler is the 'EXETER.' You've saved the lives of every one of them in one way or another. Even the guys who are only in for the money know that you're the best leader they've ever had and pay premium credits for premium work. They ain't gonna tip over the apple cart. If they spill the beans, they're out of a job. These guys are all about the bucks. You offer hard work, hard play, and hard credits...just what they want."