Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 10

"Captain," said Charleen, through barely suppressed fits of giggling, "as young as she is, do you really think that's the wisest choice? I mean she might misinterpret...imagine Mary Magdalene giving birth to the savior...of France...and then building New Orleans on Earth-Actual...after turning the Red Sea into a pillar of salt."

"I take your point," Quillan giggled in reply. She took a moment to compose herself before turning to Alice.

"Commander Nine, please explain it to Lieutenant Coffler."

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Most of the pirate gangs contacted were highly resistant to the efforts to enlist their aid. A few, however, saw the reasoning behind the move and formed an uneasy truce with the other bands to join Quillan.

The greatest accomplishment and largest group was achieved through the efforts of Salli. The few vessels that fired on her quickly regretted that decision when various, "things," happened to their computer-controlled systems. Laser turrets swung around and blew small holes in the sides of friendly ships, for instance. A captain's escape pod suddenly escaped...with the door open. One entire gang of pirates (comprising nine fast frigates) tried to wolfpack her. That was an extremely bad move on their part: Salli had daisychained the now-empty ships and claimed them for the PINK MIST armada, piloting them back to Purgatory.

In less than a week, over four hundred ships belonging to thirty seven pirate gangs were parked outside or docked at the station. They had all been informed upon entering Purgatory-controlled space that they were guests here. However, a single unauthorized shot from anyone would result in the immediate destruction of the offender. One look at the station, covered with heavy construction bots installing new cannon, and no one questioned or attempted to test that threat.

The machinery which had been put into operation by Howie was producing tech-bots, construction-bots, and various implements of destruction. Naturally, the materials had to come from somewhere, so the call had gone out to miners and metal scrappers. Top dollar was being paid for the resources, and Hell/Muffin was starting to sweat as he eyed the monetary income/outgo ratio.

Charleen hired some towing barges out of her own pocket, and took a few ships out to raise hell around the galaxy. Simple strikes; nothing fancy. Ambush a target on the declared enemy list, tell them to abandon ship or die, wait a few minutes for the escape pods to reach minimum safe distance, blow the everliving fuck out of the target, then let a towing barge haul the wreckage back to the station for reprocessing.

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Two Alliance dreadnaughts hove into view of the station, just out of range of her lasers.

"Purgatory station, this is the Alliance dreadnaught, MARK H. STEVENS, Tactical Command Fleet Admiral Louisa Daltoni in command. You are hereby ordered to surrender the vessel, PINK MIST, along with its computer and all upgrades to said ship."

"Admiral Daltoni, such a pleasure to speak with you again. I certainly hope you learned a bit of civility from our previous encounter. Would you care to approach the station and discuss this like the big girls we both are, or would you prefer threats of violence against this station and insults against me? If you choose the former, rest assured that you will remain unmolested in this sector of space."

"And if I choose the latter, Little Girl?"

A small ringing sound several decks below the admiral, as if a solid object had impacted the hull. A warning horn sounded to indicate an oxygen leak. Daltoni swung around to spear her tactical shielding officer with a glare. The officer's hand flew over his shield control panel. He shrugged and shook his head; he had no idea what had happened. All of his lights and readout reported ship-normal. Yet, the horns and a call from engineering indicated otherwise.

"Then, we punch a shitload of holes in your ships, wait for everyone to either suffocate or abandon ship, and move in and claim the salvage for ourselves. An act, I might add, which would be followed quickly by declaring war on the Alliance. I reallllllyyyyyyy don't want that to happen. I'm sure that your crew doesn't either."

"Distance to target?" Daltoni turned to her weapons officer.

"Thirty three thousand, two hundred, sixteen miles," replied the officer.

"Admiral," said Quillan, "I suggest you reconsider a direct assault on this station. Your two dreadnaughts would be so much scrap by the time you got in range to fire any lasers or slugthowers capable of doing any serious damage to us. Come on, Admiral, power down your weapons, move into the bay we have reserved for you, and let's discuss this like people rather than warriors."

"This is your last chance, Little Girl. Turn over the PINK MIST, her computer, and all of her experiments, or be prepared for a fight."

"Admiral, I'm being polite," replied Quillan's suddenly steel voice, "this is YOUR last chance. Before you answer me, I humbly request that you turn on your motion prediction targeting computer and set it for immediate proximity. I want to show you something."

Daltoni sighed, nearly at the limits of her patience. She waved a hand at Shield-Ops.

"Go right ahead with your demonstration, Missy. Then, we fight."

A very light ringing sound was heard on the hull directly in front of the bridge, her combat shield in place. A visible red laser beam appeared and drew a straight line from the viewscreen to the center of Daltoni's forehead. She blanched, the meaning clear. Had the station used the previous weapon, the admiral would be dead; a slap-patch would quickly seal the hole and life would go on...without her.

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A couple of hours later, seated in a quiet nook of the Cemetery, Quillan and Admiral Daltoni discussed the future.

"I don't understand," said the admiral. "Our shields were at maximum, yet you punched a hole in my ship and fired a second shot that impacted the hull, as well. How?"

Quillan smirked into her mug of, "OnStation," ale; the only beer manufactured locally.

"Admiral, remember what the PINK MIST is. There are a lot of prototypes in the R&D section. I'm quite sure that MilCom didn't share EVERYTHING with TacCom. Also, the Alliance let me keep every single program and particle aboard her when I took over."

Daltoni's eye widened. "You mean they didn't even remove Alliance protocols?"

"That's exactly what I mean, Ma'am," Quillan said, matter-of-factly. "Right up until the time she was signed over to me, we had access to the Alliance network. ALL the little secrets. Strengths, weaknesses, perversions, bastardizations...armor and shield weaknesses. It was nothing to produce a few hundred thousand hard-slugs with slippery shield harmonic fields around them."

"You're speaking rather freely, Captain," Daltoni sipped her wine again. "A single transmission to Earth-Actual, and you become a declared enemy."

Quillan slid her hand-held carrier across the table.

"Be my guest, Admiral," Quillan deadpanned, calling the Admiral's bluff. She knew that Daltoni was highly intrigued with this operation, and wanted to glean as much as information as she could.

"That was quite a gamble you took, attacking an Alliance Tactical Retrieval Unit," said Daltoni, changing the subject as she raised her glass of Chablis An Duc Wa to her lips. "We could have simply backed off a couple million miles and waited for backup."

"You could have done that," Quillan nodded, "but we'd be gone by the time backup arrived."

"And you would be bankrupt; no more income for this station. The Alliance would seize it and put it to work for us."

Quillan's enigmatic smile.

"You misunderstand, Admiral. When I said that we'd be gone, I meant every single one of us, the station included."

"Oh, come now, Captain," Daltoni snorted derisively. "You expect me to believe that several trillion metric tons of steel could outrun a single Alliance ship?"

"As I said, Admiral; every program...and we have some bonafide geniuses working for us."

An elegantly dressed, willowy female, with impossibly long legs, sashayed up to the table. Her light brown hair was neatly coiffed into the semblance of a lion's mane; her nose had been surgically altered to look like a jungle cat's. When she smiled, her mouth resembled a lion's, as well.

"Ladies," she greeted in a low voice, conjuring visions of a lioness on the hunt, "might I interest you in something to eat? Filet of Grancalf perhaps? Broiled Igerian lumpfish?"

"Actually, Leontine," said Quillan, "I'm in the mood for some of that delicious Marseilles Bouillabaisse. And, maybe a little..." She crooked a finger, Leotine leaning in. Quillan whispered briefly in her ear, gesturing toward the Admiral, then splaying her fingers to denote five of whatever it was. Leontine glanced at Daltoni, nodded, and moved off.

"Captain, look," said the Admiral, "I've put up with your bullshit long enough. Give me back my goddamned ship or I bring to bear the full power of the Alli..." Her words died in her throat as her eyes widened. "Oh, that's not fair, Captain."

"I tell you what, Admiral Daltoni," grinned Quillan, "Come to my office in a couple of hours...no rush...and if you still want the PINK MIST, she's yours. Until then, enjoy yourself."

As Quillan sauntered from the table, she was handed a bag containing her order. Behind her, Admiral Louisa Daltoni was surrounded by her one overwhelming weakness: Mafdets. Five of them, of both sexes.

Mafdets were a bipedal, fur covered catlike race, many of whom had found that working in the Cemetery, and on its clientele, was very much to their liking...and their bank account.

Once it been established that Admiral Daltoni was coming on to the station, Quillan had contacted Alice and Salli and asked them to dig whatever dirt they could find on Tactical Command's Chief. After several minutes of sailing through Alliance Intelligence databases, they had reported that she had almost an unhealthy obsession with the exotic creatures. This particular file had been so tightly classified and compartmentalized that not even the Alliance President was aware of it. "NEED TO KNOW, ONLY." And the President really didn't need to know.

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TO: ALLIANCE HEADQUARTERS

FROM: TAC COM FLEET ADMIRAL LOUISA E. DALTONI

Gentlemen, I hereby tender my resignation from Military Service, effective immediately. Command and Control of the dreadnaught MARK H STEVENS as well as command of the Alliance Tactical Retrieval Unit is relinquished to Captain Zebulon L. Tanner.

Very respectfully, Louisa E. Daltoni (Ret)

CC: TAC COM, MIL COM, NEWS COM

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Daltoni sent the message then leaned back in her seat, surrounded by warm, soft, furry bodies who lavished her with teasing claws and gentle purrs. She languidly turned her head to Quillan who was watching the dreadnaughts turn back toward Earth-Actual.

"They'll come back, you know," said Daltoni, pointing to the viewscreen.

"I don't care, you know," retorted Quillan, as she typed on her hand-held carrier.

A pleasant male voice intoned, "Your attention in the station, please. Procedures to move this station to new coordinates have been initiated. Spacial folding will occur in two hundred forty minutes. Please secure all loose objects and return tray tables to an upright..." A pause. "Please secure all loose objects. This message will be repeated in sixty minutes."

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Klaxons blared. The standard white fluorescent lights turned red. People stared at the lights as they tried to figure out what it meant. This had never occurred before. The klaxons ceased their blaring as a pleasant male voice sounded from every speaker and comm unit.

"Attention, this is not a drill. Spacial folding procedures have been deactivated at twenty two minutes, forty one seconds. A Mongan war vessel has assumed position one half million miles from this station. All defensive measures have been activated. Please return to your domiciles and switch to internal power systems until further notice. All PM personnel are instructed to board their ships. Howie, out."

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"PM ships, this the PINK MIST. Missile ships, outer perimeter. Carriers, in the center; I want fighter wolfpacks...that's a big motherfucker. All others, key on your respective command ship. No one cuts past the quarter million mile mark without MY personal direct authorization. DO NOT fire unless they fire first."

The PINK MIST slid around the edge of Purgatory, other ships fanning out as instructed. In the extreme distance, a Mongan Man-O-War was easily discernible with the naked eye.

"Captain, the Man-O-War has dispatched a single fighter. The Man-O-War registers as the MON-VALMAJA, belonging to a member of the Mongan Royal Family. Her weapons are powered down, and her shields are practically nil; apparently, they're up just to ward off the odd space rock. The fighter isn't moving like it's prepared for combat, either, more like it's out for a Sunday drive..."

"Thank you, Mister Benan," acknowledged Quillan. "Commander Nine, what are the capabilities of a Mongan Man-O-War?"

Alice's purring voice came from directly behind Quillan's seat.

"You are aware of the capabilities of one of their fighters. That ship can become seven disks which operate with nearly the same agility. Each disks firepower eclipses that of Purgatory. In a fight, at our present fleet size, they would win."

"...fuck me..."

The small Mongan fighter continued to close on the PINK MIST, Quillan ordering her fleet to let it approach as closely as it wanted to.

"Passive targeting only. If anyone detects a power up of its weapons, you'd better get my permission to fire..." She let the sentence hang.

In the center of the viewscreen, the words INCOMING TRANSMISSION were displayed. Quillan took a deep breath and opened the channel.

In the top left corner of the screen appeared the orange-skinned visage of what appeared to be an enormous Mongan, hunched over in the cramped cockpit.

"Greetings," he growled, displaying his rows of silver teeth; presumably a smile. "We are refugees from the Mongan Empire and seek asylum within this sector of space."

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The eight foot Mongan emerged from the cockpit of the fighter, now sitting in a bay of the PINK MIST, surrounded by powersuited warriors whose every weapon was trained on him. He stepped to the deck plates, hands held well away from his body; he knew that he didn't stand a chance if they opened fire on him.

Wearing smartgoggles which allowed her to view and control practically any part of the ship she wished, as well as sending and receiving text messages, Quillan, accompanied by Alice and Witchiepoo entered the bay. Upon sighting the redhead and the well-built blonde at her side, the Mongan slowly brought a flattened hand to his chin, held it a moment, then extended his arm once again. The Mongan salute.

"Who are you?" asked Quillan, simply. No demanding tone there; a simple question.

"I am Royal Fleet Master Denlom Ganastra, late of the Mongan Empire. Do you speak for this fleet?" the Mongan rumbled.

A message from Alice appeared in Quillan's goggles. "Show absolute strength."

"I do, since I own everything you see within a million miles," Quillan replied, gesturing around the bay. She grinned evilly. "That now includes your ship..."

She waited a beat, gauging his reaction. He showed none. Witchiepoo flashed her shark-toothed grin.

"I'm Quillan Margoles, captain of the PINK MIST, and sole ruler of this area of space. What can I do for you, Royal Fleet Master?" asked Quillan, looking into his face, almost three feet above her own.

"As I said while on approach, we seek asylum and pledge loyalty to you." He bowed his head, closing his eyes, while simultaneously reaching to his neck. He produced a silvered tag attached to a chain from beneath his shirt. A quick jerk and the chain neatly parted. He knelt and offered the dangling bauble to Quillan, his head still bowed. Quillan stood stock still as the message flashed across her goggles.

"He is relinquishing everything he owns to you and is offering to call you, 'Master,' or very similar. It is tantamount to a blood oath. This is not the time for indecision on your part, Captain Quillan."

Quillan snatched the proffered tag, clutching it tightly, pushing her fist close to his nose. A million questions were screaming in her mind. Most notably, "Why?"

"If this is a trick, Denlom Ganastra," her voice was flat, "you will be the first to die. I have your loyalty, what of your crew or any others who may be with you?"

Head bowed, he opened his eyes and spoke to Quillan's feet.

"No tricks. My word." He vaguely gestured behind him at the fighter. "There is a container in the storage compartment. With The Captain's permission, I will retrieve it."

Quillan purposely backed up and tossed her other hand, an indication that permission was granted. In two steps, Ganastra was at the exterior cargo door, the powersuited warriors following his every move. He reached in and pulled out a simple metal box which he placed on the deck. Opening it, he dumped thousands of identical tags onto the floor.

"Captain Quillan," flashed the next message, "if you accept them, walk over to the pile and thrust your entire arm into it. Seize a tag and punch him as hard as you can."

Quillan did so, the tags tinkling as they slid aside. She put everything she had into a lightning punch to his stomach. He grunted, but otherwise remained still.

"All right, Denlom Ganastra, your terms are accepted. For the present time, your crew will be quartered where they are." Quillan turned to point at Witchiepoo. "You will answer to that human until you receive further instructions from me or Commander Nine." She hiked a thumb at Alice. "Am I clear?"

"Captain, although we pledged ourselves to you, don't speak to us as you would a pup-ling. We are not stupid. And, as I was in command of the Imperial Fleet, I do not take orders from an underling...especially a WOMAN."

Alice looped a forearm around Krystine's neck as the latter took a step toward the Mongan, fists clenched.

"Please allow Captain Quillan to handle the proceedings, Flight Leader," she murmured into Witchiepoo's ear, at the same time transmitting a message to the smartgoggles. "It is a test, Captain Quillan. Their race regards both sexes to be extremely capable and equal, if properly trained."

"Now, you listen to me, you ugly motherfucker," Quillan's voice dripped with venom. "You're in MY space, on MY ship, standing in front of ME. I'll speak to you any way I fucking well want to. You got that, shithead? Either you listen to me and do what I fucking say, or I alert the Mongan Empire AND the goddamn Alliance as to your whereabouts. I wonder who would get here first and if there would be anything left of your ship worth salvaging? I imagine information like that would be worth quite a bit."

Ganastra let out a belly laugh, rows of silver teeth gleaming.

"Very well done, Captain Margoles," he said, smiling his silver-toothed smile. "With your permission, I'll return to my ship and move it closer to the station." He stuck out a huge hand for Quillan to shake. Her own hand disappeared inside his as he gently applied pressure, then bowed and turned to clamber back into the fighter.

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The Man-O-War, redesignated PM OVERLORD, had assumed a slow orbit of Purgatory at a distance five thousand miles. In fits and spurts, the newly appointed Mongan pirates arrived and filtered through the station toward the recruiting center for processing, drawing looks of concern from the populace. The Mongans ignored the whispers and pointings, being well trained to follow the orders of their superiors.