The Furies

It didn't stop, if anything it got more intense and she couldn't pass out. The pleasure became unbearable, so stark and raw it was exquisite agony. She couldn't stop cumming or even control the flow of sensation to the point she could make a coherent thought and keep it.

Eventually, something happened in her head, her conscious mind splitting from her body. She was able to truly enjoy the rush then, as she became for a while a pleasure addict, screaming and satisfied in cycles that lasted only seconds. She could not tell if they were individual orgasms or if her sense of time was so warped that she was enjoying each pulse from one orgasm to its fullest extent, making it into its own discreet orgasmic event.

Everything blurred into a red haze and her mind floated away, riding the peaks and waves without any conscious connection to the trip being a single event.

When her mind came back to her, they were laying on the floor of the gym. Surfer was still fucking her, but in the old fashioned way. In a few strokes the dark headed girl came and collapsed on Holly's back.

Holly couldn't feel her legs. Her arms, her pussy, even her tits were numb.

"I can't feel anything," she whimpered.

"Shhhh, shhhh, it's okay babe. You've just hit burnout. It'll be okay. Come one now, let's get you to my place and get you something to eat. You need to replace all the nutrients you've used up."

The trip back to Surfer's was a blur, as was the meal she mechanically ate, and the pills the lithe girl made her take. She faded off to sleep in Surfer's arms.

When she woke her whole body tingled. Her pussy throbbed and her head was spinning. It was all good though. She was suffused with a euphoric well-being that defied description. She doubted she would be able to get the well fucked smile off her face for days to come.

"What the fuck is that?" Lucky demanded of the rather timid little man in his white lab coat.

She was looking at the new wonder weapon. It looked like a pickle, about fifteen feet long and a foot or more in diameter.

"It's an oxly torpedo," he replied.

"A fucking new missile is the wonder weapon?" Lucky exploded, causing the small man to cringe.

A sharp look from Erica silenced the tirade the stacked pilot was about to launch into.

"How's it work?" Goose asked.

"Well, we've managed to miniaturize a C plus engine. That drives it. The housing and core are neutronium."

"Neutronium? That stuff weights a ton," Surfer said.

"Actually, one cubic centimeter weighs just less than a standard ton. The weapon is super dense, it has to be,"

"Go on," Mindy said when he paused.

"It works on a simple enough premise, as an object nears lightspeed, mass is converted to energy. With one of these, the total energy is staggering because the mass is so great. Planetary shields would burn out trying to repel it."

"So it can break through the Trog's new shields?" Lucky enquired.

"In theory, it will vaporize the whole ship," he replied.

"How's it guided?" Goose asked.

"There we come to a problem," the little man said with a heavy sigh.

"They're unguided. We simply can't build a computer with enough power to do the necessary computations and make it smaller than this room," he said, waving an arm to encompass the twenty by twenty vault.

"Bullshit! The computer in my watch can do simple telemetry calculations," Lucky shouted.

"Have you ever been on one of the old FTL ships?" the officer asked.

"No."

"The computers are massive and are locked in a shock proof armored cacoon. This isn't to protect them from enemy fire, it's to protect them from the radiation an FTL engine produces. The computer components are small enough, we just don't have anything we can shield them with that is small enough."

"Oh."

"So how do you fire them?" Goose asked.

"You eyeball 'em in."

"You're out of your damned mind! You expect a pilot to make visual adjustments and calculate the track of an enemy vessel? Even I couldn't hit more than once in a blue moon doing that," Goose exclaimed.

"You can if you don't fire at more than four thousand meters," he replied.

They all stared at him like he had three heads. Standard tactics called for missile launch at fifty thousand clicks and even that was in optimal conditions.

"You've got to be kidding," Erica finally said.

"I wish I were. We've been working on guidance system shielding for three years, that's why they haven't been introduced. That was the hold up. Now…it's a one in a million chance we'll be around long enough to solve the guidance problem."

"It can't be done," Surfer said flatly.

"Yeah, this is a suicide mission and even if we succeed, so what? We take out one or two ships," Lucky exploded.

"It isn't suicide. The torpedoes come with a twenty-one second delay before the FTL fires. At three quarters boost, you can be well outside the detrimental blast radius in that time. In a Corsair, at full boost from attack speed, you can be out of there in ten seconds. The damage is massive, but it spends itself on the shields, creating a sphereical blast that emplodes, rather than a conventional explosion. You have only to escape the resultant expanding post explosion photon sphere which is many times less destructive."

"Has this been tested?" the boss asked.

"Yes, the torpedo design makes the energy release react to the specific physics of shield generation fields. It will work."

"In combat I mean." Erica said.

"No."

"I'm afraid I agree with my officers."

"I don't like it either, Captain, but what choice do we have? Unless you want to see three hundred trillion people wiped out as the Trog overrun the Eastern Arm?"

"Please ladies, it's not as bad as you think," the little man said.

"What the fuck do you know?' Lucky barked, physically shoving the scientist who beat a hasty retreat behind the Admiral.

"We designed a new ship to deliver them," he squeaked.

"Go on," Erica prompted.

"It's a variant of the E-2A Corsair," the Admiral said.

"Corsair? You mentioned one before. What are they?" Surfer asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm not surprised you haven't heard of them. Only a handful exist. They're basically multi-role fighter bombers with a limited cloaking device."

"You can't cloak a fighter. Hell, you can't cloak anything smaller than a battle cruiser!" Lucky cried as her face got red.

"No, full cloak is hideously expensive in terms of power. Any ship that has one is of necessity massive, with the majority of its internal workings comprised of the engines. But we have developed a limited cloak that a fighter can use."

"How limited?" Lucky asked.

"Basically, no seeking weapon will be able to get a lock on. That will defeat 90% of their capital ships and escorting ships anti-fighter defense systems. You'll only have to worry with direct fire point defense systems and fighters."

"And how many of these fighters do you have available?" Erica asked.

"Fifty-two," he replied.

"What about escort fighters?" Goose asked.

"We have two groups, the one hundred and forth composite wing, formed from orphans of the carrier task forces."

"And the other?"

"The two hundred and seventh interceptor group," he said through clenched teeth.

"Texas Thunder?" Lucky asked, incredulous.

"The same," he said with a big sigh.

"What's Texas Thunder?" Erica asked.

"You want to tell her? Or should I?" Lucky said, drawing a scowl from the admiral.

"The two oh seven is the two hundredth fighter commands penal group," he said testily.

"That's putting it mildly."

"That's enough, Lieutenant, unless you're bucking for some brig time," he exploded.

"Hell, put me in irons, at least I'll be alive," she replied defiantly.

Erica stepped between them.

"Is this the best we can come up with, Admiral Scot?"

"Yes."

Erica nodded and motioned to her officers to go.

"Well, at least now we have them right where they want us," Surfer quipped as they walked away.

"You know my pilots are all rookies. I would never say it in front of my officers, but this is mad," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry Erica, I truly am. If we had any other option you know I would be the first to put it forward."

"I know. They don't call you the pilot's Admiral for nothing. We'll just have to make do I guess."

"Godspeed," he said as she turned and walked away.

Erica watched as the sleek black fighter taxied to a stop and Lucky wearily climbed out.

"Well?"

"It handles superbly, but our girls will kill themselves with it."

"Well, it's simply up to you and Surfer to prevent that."

"Don't worry about us, worry about the Goose. She still hasn't gotten back from trial runs with the dummy torpedoes. I'll let ya off light because I expect her to pitch a fit to end all fits," Lucky said with a weary smile as she headed towards the locker rooms.

Erica watched her go and waited impatiently for Goose to get in. It was another twenty minutes before the fighter she piloted nosed into the hanger bay and she got out.

"Well?"

"It isn't easy, but it's doable. I got Christian in munitions modifying a couple hundred reflex missiles to mate with the torpedo mounts. Should be ready by the time we make Yalo. If they are, we can go to 'round the clock training exercises. If the Trog give us half a chance, we should be ready."

"I thought you said it was impossible," Erica said with a smile.

"I was figuring run time, like a regular missile has, but when the FTL kicks, delivery is almost instantaneous. All you really had to do is lead the target ship enough so the torpedo is still pointed at it when the FTL kicks, twenty-one seconds after launch."

"How are we going to simulate that?"

"Christina is putting timers on the reflex missiles, they won't fire their after burners for twenty-one seconds. It will give them, about the same run time as a torpedo," Goose said as they walked towards the lockers.

"And after it kicks?"

"Nose camera, sending back real time video. We will know exactly where and if the torpedo would have hit. Wasteful of cameras and missiles, but I don't have a better solution and with only five hundred prototype torpedoes, we can't afford live tests."

Rebel sat in the audience hall with her classmates. They all wore dress blues and were thinking this was to be the graduation ceremony that had been skipped. At the head of the auditorium was a podium and the excited buzz of voices died down as Captain Quarrels approached the podium.

"Ladies, your attention please," he called.

"I know you were all looking forward to graduation, I'm afraid that can't be now. As of this moment, you are all commissioned as ensigns and assigned to seventh fleet's only operational air wing, the one aboard this ship. The enemy has unleashed a new weapon and we have suffered a grievous blow. His majesty now calls upon you to stand between the enemy and the civilians of the eastern arm. I wish you all the best and will now turn this meeting over to the Air Boss."

He saluted and left, there was a hubbub of hushed conversations as Marines with live weapons moved to the doors. The Air Boss mounted the stage and moved to the podium.

"Don't mind the security men, what you are hearing now is top secret. Not a word of it is to be breathed to anyone outside the flight group. Do you all understand?"

She waited for a moment, but no one asked a question so she pulled down a projector screen and took out a laser pointer.

"Computer, lights," she called and the auditorium was plunged into darkness.

"This is the E2-A3 Corsair," she intoned as a sleek, but very large computer-generated hologram of the fighter appeared in the space over her head.

"We'll all be equipped with them. You're all going to have to cram advance fighter courses into your heads this week and you'll learn on the job after that. We'll skip most of the rudimentary stuff and the courses that don't apply to the Corsair. In addition, you will all learn to use our new secret weapon. I'll turn you over to the Goose."

Goose stepped up and took the pointer from Erica.

"This is an oxyl torpedo. It isn't like the other missiles you have used and will require a lot of practice. There is a 21 second safety interlock feature, so you will have to learn to judge distance and speed on a target vessel. It's going to be hard, but it can be done. We start a week's training in fifteen minutes. Get to your ships and get ready.

"This is our new birdy, the Corsair," Lucky intoned to the gathered pilots.

"It's fast, ungodly fast, and as agile as an interceptor. Main armament is the eight PPC model tens in the wings, you are all familiar with those. She doesn't carry many missiles, the two underfuselage hardpoints are specially configured for torpedoes, so your only fire and forget weapons are the copperheads on the wing tips. They work like usual, select 'em from your stores, track till you get tone and release. Each ship has a pair of underwing hard points, for you girls those will remain empty for now, since adding anything changes the flight characteristics and you will have your hands full with the standard load. You all have the ship's spec sheets, study them and get ready for the worlds crashingest crash course in advanced avionics."

The week that followed was frenetic, with the pilots in the cockpit twenty-two hours out of every day. By week's end they were all zombies and most were barely cognizant when the Boss announced that their escort wings had arrived, they were taking on stores, and would jump that evening. They had suffered already, six pilots lost and ten fighters in training mishaps.

Rebel was as tired as the rest, but she loitered around the hangar deck after everyone was dismissed. She didn't have any excuse and was past the point of making one, she wanted to see Erica in her flight suit. So she took her time putting on her uniform and was still tugging up her trousers when the Boss entered the locker room.

Her face was drawn and haggard, the blue eyes dull and vacant. Rebel barely noticed, she was staring at her superior's figure. Erica's suit was black and fit like a second skin, her breasts were revealed to be full and heavy, much larger than Rebel would have believed, although nowhere near the titanic proportions of Holly's. Her hips were slim, and her ass was heavy, but tight. Her pussy was fat and the crease in the suit seemed to be pulled between her lips, causing Rebel to have to swallow a lump in her throat.

"What are you doing here?" the Boss snapped.

"Nothing," she replied.

"Jezzus Christ Rebel, all pilots were ordered to hit the sack. You're one of my officers now, I expect you to lead by example."

"I didn't ask to be an officer!" Rebel exploded, storming out of the locker room.

She felt like a heel almost as soon as the door closed behind her and almost went back to apologize, but her pride wouldn't let her.

"Damn girl, you look mad enough to chew a horseshoe and spit nails," Lucky said.

"I don't know how she does it. I get along with everyone else, but she just has a knack for pissing me off!"

"Comes of being the boss," Surfer replied.

"What are you guys doing here?" Rebel asked.

"Waiting to see our fighters," Goose replied.

"What's to see?"

"Well, we're all aces. Since we are now active combat again, we can personalize our ships. The tech crews are just about done with the paint schemes, and reconfigs" Surfer said.

The first ship to roll in was Lucky's. It was painted red, with black markings and white detail. On the nose was a naked girl who resembled Lou and the words Lucky's Baby, were done in script over her. On the underwing mounts she had two sets of quad copperheads, which drastically augmented her dogfighting capability.

Surfer's ship was painted blue, with aquamarine lettering and black detail. The nose had a girl in a skimpy bikini holding a surfboard and the words, Wipe Out done above her head in black script. She too had the extra quads of fire and forget missiles.

Goose's fighter was the most elaborate, done up in white with feathers, yellow claws on the landing gear and a yellow nose cone that looked just like a beak. Tiny eyes were located near the cockpit and in gold script along the pilot's housing was the word Gosling II. True to her nature, her underwing mounts were 55mm gunpods like those on the ghostdogs.

"God damnit Rebel! Get your ass to bed before I bust you back to invertebrate!" the Boss shouted as she emerged from the locker room.

"Shit," Rebel declared, before racing off to her room.

The ship jumped while most of them were asleep and neared arrival while they still slumbered.

"Captain?" the voice of the Yorktown called.

"Yes?"

"I'm picking up massive ship movements in the arrival zone."

"Friendlys?"

"I would think not. No IFF codes in my data base for them and massive life form readings. According to the files from Command, there aren't thirty vessels left at Yalo and I am currently tracking close to eight hundred."

"Helm, sound battle stations. Get me the Air Boss, pronto."

"Battle stations. Battle stations. This is not a drill, I repeat this is no shit," an excited voice called over the PA.

Erica grabbed the red phone on her desk and pressed the Bridge call.

"Erica?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Get your people to their craft and get 'em loaded hot, the old girl is tracking eight hundred bogies in the drop zone."

"Right away," she replied before hanging up and rushing out of her office.

Pilots were milling around in confusion. Techs were running this way and that, only Rebel and Cloudy had their flight suits on.

"Tucker!" She shouted.

"Here Boss!" the big man called.

"Get these idiots into their flight suits and to their ships."

"I'm on it, Boss," he bellowed above the din.

"Rebel! Cloudy! Come with me!" she shouted to make herself heard above the din of klaxons and the buzz of at least a hundred voices. She raced to her ship and bounded aboard with Tucker's curses sounding above the noise. Techs quickly connected her suit and helmet.

"Good hunting, sir!" Chavez called before closing her canopy.

The big engines whined as she let them out and taxied towards the catapults.

"You girls with me?" she asked over the tac net.

"With you skipper," Cloudy responded.

"Right on your ass, boss," Rebel said in an excited voice.

"Cloudy, cat two. Rebel, they are bumping the ready alert fighter from cat three."

"Roger," they replied in unison.

Erica hadn't done this in a long time, but she could feel the adrenaline, the rush. It was addictive and she marveled that she had gone so long without a fix.

"Cap, what's the status on escorts?"

"Two Ghostdogs, fully loaded. Callsigns Hammer and Thunder."

"Just two?"

"That's it, Captain. Portside catapults are down, ten minutes estimated to repair."

"We come out of hyperspace in what?"

"Four minutes, twenty three seconds."

"Great."

"Putting you over to defense net."

"Roger."

"Hammer, checking in," an excited male voice called.

"Thunder, checking in," a more mature masculine voice called.

"Cowboy, checking in. I'm on the broke launcher, Boss."

"Nice to have you with us boys. I'm the Boss, Cloudy and Rebel are with me. We'll form up off the port quarter."

"Roger, that," all three said in unison.

"Boss, it's Goose. We'll be launching right after you."

"Who's with you, Goose?"

"I've got Jugs and Lou. Lucky's got Red and Ghost. Surfer is still trying to get responses, it looks like half of 'em forgot to turn their radios on, the flight deck is pandemonium."

"Roger, don't launch until I give you an assessment. I've only got the Texas Thunder pilots and they have a cat down. No word from the other escort wing."