Olympus Beckons Pt 13

Olympus Beckons - Chapter 13: "Anywhere it Fucking Wants."

The gunships looked like a school of remora as they followed the old warcruiser through the silent blackness of space, and for her part,

Zeus

played the role of shark quite well as she glided along, with her armoured bulk showing the scars and scrapes of a long and violent past. She wasn't a pretty ship, never had been, but she was tough. And like some battered bare-knuckle pugilist of old, there was something about her, some dogged grim pride that proclaimed to one and all, that anyone thinking themselves hard enough was welcome to step up and take their best shot.

Off her port beam sailed

Apollo,

her younger sister, running lights flashing as she came alongside, proudly displaying her own scars and trophies. Lighter and swifter perhaps, she could have overtaken, if such was her want, but instead she held station, and in doing so paid silent tribute, as her lights flashed in salute to the old warhorse.

Behind them, basking in the light of the binary system's two golden suns, lay the Bannerman Outpost, an old pre-war station hanging in orbit over the emerald loveliness of a farming world. The station had once been a military installation, and while much of it had been repurposed towards more agricultural and weather monitoring needs, it still retained armour and missile tubes enough to deter any but the most determined raider.

Having at last deposited their charges, safe and sound at their destination, and partaken of what limited diversions a farming world could offer their crews during an all too short shore leave, the two warships had gathered their children, paid their dues and fines, bailed the worst from cells, escorted or carried them back aboard, and headed spaceward again.

One gunship had been docked to the steel hide of

Zeus

, and now it detached, allowing the gentle breath of maneuvering thrusters to push it away. It drifted for a moment, still and quiet, before righting itself. Its engines ignited, and it swiftly curved away from the ship, propelled by a pillar of fire.

Frances braced herself against the thrust. Most ships had inertial compensators and artificial gravity enough to mute and dampen all but the most violent of maneuvers, but a gunship was so small, and its oversized engines so powerful, that the things could turn on a six-credit piece and take off like a damned rocket. It was a familiar sensation, and she felt herself grinning as she realised just how much she had missed it.

Standing beside her, the skipper of the

Mako

watched the Teraxan Captain from the corner of her eyes, her own smile maybe mimicking that of the navy woman, "Brings back memories, eh?"

Nodding, Frances turned to her, "That it does. Thanks again for doing this."

Kora's smile turned to a sly grin, "Ohh, don't go thanking me, girl. I aint doing this out of the generosity of my heart. You fucking owe me, bigtime. And I

always

collect."

Expecting argument, the gunship skipper had to hide her surprise when the woman only sighed, "Yea, that's fair. A deal's a deal," she scratched her chin, and looked to her host, "what now?"

Hooking her thumb back along the passageway, Kora tilted her head, "You can store your gear in my cabin, you'll be bunking with me," she snorted, "that big gorilla you brought with you can sort himself out."

Frances blinked, "With you? That's uh... generous."

There was a laugh, "Oh, get over yourself. You'll be safe enough, I'll be keeping my hands to myself, I promise. But you're a Captain. Wouldn't be right you mucking out with the riffraff now would it."

"I've done it before, and on rougher tubs than this."

Kora eyed her for a moment and then shook her head with a snort of laughter, "Oh, you're gonna be a hoot. Tell me, Navy, you play cards?"

The woman's expression smoothed into something entirely guileless almost instantly, "Cards? Uh... you mean like gambling? Maybe a bit, why?"

The gunship skipper's laughter could be heard in the next compartment, "Oh yea, this is gonna be fun."

...

Zek looked up as Jeff lumbered past him into the cramped crew compartment. The man was carrying a heavy equipment crate like it was filled with feathers, and not a full load of armour and weapons, and he looked for all the world like a great big chunk of heavy machinery that had just decided one day to get up and go for a meander.

The crewman working next to Zek watched the broad back of the grizzled marine, and whistled silently, "You see the size of that motherfucker? Where in Hell's he gonna sleep?"

Zek sniffed, "Same place as a Kodiax Direbear."

"Huh?"

"Anywhere it fucking likes."

...

Jeff peered about the compartment, watching the flurry of activity. He figured about half the crew of this dipship little pigboat were present, carrying out all the last-minute prep that a quick launch always entailed. He grunted to himself, listening to the familiar litany of curses and complaints, as this spacer or that realised they'd brought too much shit back from shoreleave and had nowhere to put it, or that they'd had forgotten that one little nicknack they'd meant to buy. It was always the same.

Given the number of times he'd been transferred with cause, and the number of gaffs he'd been turfed from, he tended to travel light. Pretty much everything he owned was in the battered kit bag slung over his shoulder, and all his work gear and necessities was in the armoured crate he was carrying.

A voice called out, "Hey, new-guy! Yea, you, Gigantor, over here."

The speaker was a tall woman, big boned and rangy. She had something of a craggy face, with a hooked nose and beady, deep-set eyes that made her look like a fucking spacewitch. Casting his eye over her generous bust he had to admit, she was certainly stacked, but handsome she was not.

She gave him a toothy grin, "Seen enough?"

His reply was a grunt and a noncommittal shrug.

Clearly unfazed, she cast her own eye over him, and chuckled, "Well, yer a big bugger aint ya, Sweetcheeks?"

The man gave her a lopsided grin, "Aint had no complaints, yet."

"Ha! Cheeky bastard. Okies, you're hotbunking with me. I'm the only one anywhere near your size, and my bunk's big enough, so at least yer feet won't end up sticking out of the rack. No wanking or scratching yer arse in my bunk, and if you leave a mess, you better fucking clean up after yourself. You can stow your shit underneath and then take your suit down to the bay to be checked out by the armoursmith."

He nodded, "Okies, uh, what do I call ye?"

She gave a snort, "Long as it aint, "Cunt", you can call me anything you like, Sweetcheeks," she made an offhand gesture around the compartment, "but most of these assholes call me, "Granma" on account of me being oldest, see?"

"Yea, but what's yer name?"

Peering at him, her eyes narrowed, "Delores, why?"

Shifting the crate that probably weighed more than some crewmen under one arm, he shoved out a mattock-sized hand, "I'm Jeff, pleased ta meet you, Delores."

...

Kora eyed the Captain as the woman peered about the small command deck with the obvious interest of a professional spacer, and she didn't miss how she ran a hand gently, almost longingly, across the back of the command chair.

Clearing her throat brought the woman's attention back to her, "Okay, so I'm guessing your man back there..."

"Jeff."

"Yea, Jeff. Anyway, I'm guessing he has technical expertise we can use, so I figure he can serve as assistant armourer and maybe as second mechanic, and, if push comes to shove, he'll help out in any boarding actions, yea?"

Frances raised her eyes, giving her a thin smile, "As long as he gets a cut, sure."

"A cut? Seriously? You guys are working your passage, and we're going waaay the Hell and gone out of our path to get you where you wanna go. Aint that enough?"

The Navy woman didn't so much as bat an eyelid, "Working passage is one thing, risking his neck fighting for you is another. Now knowing Jeff like I do, I'm guessing he'd probably be quite happy to shoot anyone you put in front of him, but as far as I'm concerned, that goes above and beyond, and I want to see him treated right."

Kora pursed her lips with a frown, but eventually she nodded, "Fair enough. If it comes to it, I'll see he gets a square deal, okay?"

"Okay."

The gunship skipper grinned, "But what about you? What can you do for me?"

Frances blinked, "Pardon?"

The piratical creature stepped back, giving the woman an unabashed and appreciative once over, "Well, you're working your passage too, so unless you wanna do it by selling your ass to the crew, you might want to think of some other way you can be useful. Because, like I said, there aint no free rides on my boat. So, tell me, Princess, what can you do?"

Scratching her hair, Frances considered, "Well, I'm a warship Captain, which means you pretty much have to be able to do most things relating to such. I'm a fair pilot, but nothing special. I can do Nav calculations in a pinch, and I know my way around damage control as well as suits, small arms and shuttles, though Jeff out there is vastly more experienced at that kind of thing than me. But if you're asking what I'm good at? Well, I spent most of my time as a junior officer in gunnery and tactical."

Kora tilted her head thoughtfully, "You don't say?"

Moving across the small command deck she paused at a chair and tapped the woman manning it on the shoulder, "Hey, Tomboy, get your ass back into the copilot's seat and make room for the lady."

A young woman looked up, her face split by an impish smile of delight, "Oh, thank fuck."

Kora rolled her eyes and gestured, "Tomboy here is our copilot, but she's also number two on guns, she just likes piloting better, a lot better. Hey, Tomboy, set up your console to run "Cestus Strike" and "Two Pump Chump" before you go, and we'll see what the Princess can do."

Frances lifted her eyes from the console, "Exercises?"

"Yup, if you're good enough you'll be my gunnery officer, if not," she grinned, "well, then you might end up selling your ass after all."

Frances sighed, "Fuck you."

"Pardon?"

The Teraxan Captain shook her head with a grin, "I said, 'fuck you',

Skipper

."

Kora nodded, "Better."

As Frances plugged herself into the consol, the young woman who'd just been banished from the position sidled over. She was a diminutive thing, slim and slightly built. In truth she looked far too young to be crewing a gunship with a rabble of bloodthirsty raiders, and her bright eyes and broad smile lent her an almost childlike quality that made Frances almost want to pat her on the head, "I'm Tomboy."

"So I heard."

The girl nodded, "Want a rundown on the console before you start?"

The controls looked fairly standard, but you never knew what modifications these lunatics might have installed. Besides, refusing the help would have been a dumb play, so she nodded, "Sure."

The girl's smile broadened, "Cool," and she began pointing out various instrument clusters, "uh, these are the controls for queuing up the targeting computers, and those handle the loads for the missile stacks..."

Frances nodded, "You have different loadouts?"

"Well, mostly we use standard high-explosive birds, short range and double yield, but we have a few 'longshots' on hand, just not many," she shrugged, "they're kinda hard to get a hold of."

"Hmm, EMP warheads on the longshots?"

The girl nodded enthusiastically, "Yup, not everyone's familiar with those, I guess you know your stuff after all."

Frances shrugged and gave her an answering smile, "I'm a bit rusty, but it's like riding a jetbike, or so I hear."

"You wanna use the VR headset, or rely on the viewplates?"

Experimentally flicking a few switches, Frances made a face, "Ehh, think I'll stick with the viewplates, for now at least, until I figure out which way is up."

Tomboy grinned, "It'll come back to you. You ready?"

Kora grunted and slammed her finger down on a button, "She better be."

Swearing, Frances began frantically hitting controls and bringing up systems from standby mode as her screen flashed angrily with the legend, "Program Initiated."

Spinning, Tomboy glared furiously, "That's just mean!"

Kora sniffed, "Shut it, half-pint," she looked down at the smaller woman and then gestured across her shoulder, "in fact, go sync the co-pilots chair to gunnery and run the damned exercise with her. No point wasting the opportunity."

The girl's eyes went wide, "What?"

"Best hurry, small fry. The exercise has already started. Be a shame if she fucks up cos you aint doing your part."

"Bitch."

Watching the younger woman as she literally threw herself into her chair, fingers flying across the controls, Kora couldn't help but grin, "Tic-toc, kiddo."

She chuckled at the angry one fingered salute that came back her way.

Turning to her pilot she grunted, "Okay, while the kids are playing, the rest of us have work to do. Set course for Shalako, sync navcomp and jump drives with the rest of the gang and make ready to get this shitshow on the road."

Her reply was a thumbs up and a nod, "Will do, Boss."

...

Zek leaned on the back of the command chair peering over the skipper's shoulder as he eyed the results of the exercise. The computer had methodically catalogued the woman's performance before displayed its assessment on the viewplate that he and Kora were studying. The man grunted, "Well, she's a vicious fucker, I'll give her that."

Studying the screen, Kora snorted as her eyes expertly ran down the list of havoc and destruction the navy woman had inflicted, "Not a bad shot, isn't she?"

Watching the replay, Zek had to agree, "No shit."

Kora nodded and her lips parted in a thoughtful smile, "Mind you, she's a little predictable, but I'm guessing that's because I annoyed her with this bullshit, that and just maybe she's gotten a bit too comfortable."

"Huh?"

Pointing at the display, the Skipper ran the recording back, "Look, here. She had the opportunity to withdraw clean, but she went for the kill instead."

Zek frowned, "Yea, but she got the fucker."

"She did, but she took damage and used a lot of munitions doing it. That's Navy thinking if ever I saw it. They can repair and resupply every time they get to a space station, but we don't have that luxury. We have to pay our way. Sometimes you have to remember that annoying little detail, and measure what you might gain against what you might lose when making the call on when to fight and when to cut bait and run."

Zek looked at the screen, his brow furrowed in thought, "You think she's reckless?"

"Nah, I'd not go that far," she grinned, "the woman was just pissed and wanted to kill everyone. Fuck knows, I've felt the same myself from time to time. But still, it's maybe worth keeping an eye on."

She flicked off the display, "Either way, it seems the Princess has skills after all. She'll make a damned handy gunner, we'll just have to wait and see about using her at tactical."

Grinning, the man snorted, "You know, if you keep calling her that, she's going to fucking shoot you."

With an evil chuckle Kora slapped him on the back, "Yea, I should probably cut it out, but it's just way too much fun watching her grit her teeth every time I do it."

"It's your ass, Boss."

Unfazed, the woman shrugged happily, "Well, if she kills me then you can say, "I told you so," right after you blow her head off."

He looked askance, "What? And waste a perfectly good gunner? No way."

"You're a dick, I dunno why I keep you around."

Wagging his eyebrows the man gave her a salacious wink, "I do."

...

Blake leaned back, relaxing into the familiar padded comfort of his command chair, his fingers idly tapping at the controls on the armrest. His eyes played over the viewplate, but in truth he was only half paying attention as the first of the assault shuttles began to detach from the science station.

Manipulating a control, he brought the construct into closer focus. It had been thoroughly raped. Jagged torn holes marked where his missiles had taken out their defensive installations while melted scars showed how his guns had penetrated the outer hull, tearing it open to reach the soft meat within, probing for the life support mechanisms that had kept the place alive.

It had been a tricky engagement. The two destroyers defending the place were modern and well equipped, but they were careless. They never expected to come under attack, why would they? After all, nobody in their right mind challenged the Syndicate. Not these days. Everyone ran scared of their rep, and usually with damned good reason. But that kind of rep had a way of creating its own problems. Sure, some of them did merc work and enforcement jobs, while others contented themselves by bullying local outfits and running protection scams. But it had been years since most of them had been involved in anything like a stand-up fight, and it showed.

The destroyers should have been running quiet, they should have been warier, moving like the sharks they were supposed to be, but they weren't. Instead, they'd been swanning about on their predictable-as-fuck patrol routes, broadcasting their cute little "tactical updates" to one another for all the Galaxy to hear, and for him to home in on.

Fucking amateurs.

He'd bounced them both. The first hadn't even gotten a shot off before they realised they were dead, and the second hadn't done much better. And now there were just another two clouds of debris and particulate matter floating about in the dark.

The station had managed to get its guns online, but from the response times they were crewed by militia, and instead of opening up with everything they had, the Administrator had wanted to 'negotiate'.

Well, that wasn't a mistake he'd ever be repeating.

Around him, the usual sounds, the comm chatter, updates from tactical, status reports from gunnery, engineering, and all the other expected communications flowed about the bridge in a mundane tide as his crew carried out their grisly business. There was no fuss as they targeted the various lifeboats and escape pods trying to flee the destruction, and only a quick flash, or an all-too-brief electronic scream marked their deaths as they were burned from the continuum.

But then, his crew were used to slaughter, they neither reveled in it nor avoided it, and there were no cheers as they murdered without qualm.

After all, it was simply business, and business was good.

He looked up as his XO approached, grey, colourless eyes evaluating the officer with the cool detachment that was his norm, "Yes, Commander?"

The man drew himself up. He was a tall, cadaverous creature, with a distinctly disquieting mien, but like Blake he was a combat veteran; skilled, competent and entirely ruthless, with an eye for detail and an analytical bent that the Captain had come to thoroughly appreciate, "Report from the boarding parties, Sir. The operation is nearing completion. All data, schematics and materials have been recovered successfully, and the charges have been set."

"Very good. Casualties?"

"Negative, Sir. Resistance was limited and the assault teams dealt with it."

"Excellent," he turned back to his console, but paused as the XO hesitated, "something else?"

"Yes, Sir. Two of the scientists surrendered and are offering further technical data in exchange for their lives. And there were a number of other survivors, mostly the families of the station staff. They're currently being held under guard in the gymnasium."

Blake considered, "I see," turning to face his subordinate more fully he raised a brow in query, "recommendations?"