Oodles and Oodles of Fun...(Boxcar and Red)

[UnmarkedBoxcar]

Miles decided not to read the news for a while.

"This is the second conflict to break out in, what, two months? I thought the Galactic Powers were bad... do none of these minor factions ever get tired of blowing each other up?"

War is a galactic pastime.

"Hmph. The Galaxy should find a new hobby. Like knitting. Knitting is nice."

With a negligent, and slightly disgusted wave of his hand, Miles minimized the Nav display and the GalNet article he'd just finished reading. He swiveled the pilots chair around and with an expert push, from years of practice, sent himself floating toward the handrail on the upper bulkhead of the bridge. With another gentle nudge he re-directed himself toward a console on the port side of the flight deck. The console showed a few lines of text scrolling under an illuminated diagram of Red's interior. With just a few keystrokes he pulled up the Cargo Bay menu and watched a brief diagnostic--fish, tea, textiles, and other foodstuffs. Over 200 tons of foodstuffs, to be more precise. This particular load wouldn't make him and Red very much money, but he doubted that refugees of a civil war cared very much about Palladium. The fighting had lasted almost a week, this time. People lost homes, ships, lives. And for what? Really...for what? He didn't have an answer.

Miles turned and nudged himself backward toward the pilot's seat. His pressure suit had a few small vector thrusters built into it, but he rarely used them. Rarely enough, in fact, that he had long been in the habit of wearing an old leather Pilot's Federation jacket over the suit, which would interfere with the thrusters on his back and shoulder blades should he ever actually need to use them. He didn't wear a helmet, which was probably not the best habit for a pilot to have. In his defense, though, while it may not be the brightest idea to fly without a helmet, he did have several fastened in strategic locations throughout the ship so that he could pull one on at the first sign of combat, conflict, or impending canopy damage.

His backward nudge landed him deftly in the still-spinning pilots seat. He hadn't actually needed to move to a different console in the first place, but he had felt the need to get up and move around, albeit for a short time, before strapping himself in for the last jump home.

Home. Fusang. Made up of huge gas giants, a handful of moons, and a quaint little asteroid belt. The only station in the system, Cleve Vision, supported itself mostly as a refinery for the various mining sites in Fusang and a few neighboring systems. Though Miles suspected that they also made quite a bit of profit from the local shipyard and outfitting facilities--though a bit of a backwater, Cleve was the only high-tech spaceport within two or three decent jumps in any direction.

A backwater. He wondered briefly how many thousands of years ago that phrase had been coined, and where it even came from. But whatever it originally meant, Fusang definitely qualified. With a population of around 4.7 million (last time he checked) their entire populace wouldn't really make a dent in a place like Sol with its 17+ billion inhabitants. Being such a small system did tend to make it awkward when folks decided they'd rather fight than mine, though.

It used to be so very nice and quiet.

"How about an ETA for our client. Any word?"

Last transmission said they were slightly ahead of schedule. They should arrive within the hour. It'll take them a while to come around to face the final Nav beacon, though.

"Eh. We're in no hurry. Let them take as much time as they need. That lug of theirs isn't as agile or as attractive as you are."

Trying to make me blush?

"Always. Though, now that you mention it, that's a rather interesting notion. The best way to fluster a spaceship..."

Fluster?

"Mhm. Compliments. Flattery. Off-color jokes with the occasional eyebrow waggle."

Never mind.

"Research could prove useful. Give me something to do while prowling asteroid belts for hours on end."

You're a brat.

"My dear Red, are you still blushing?"

Instead of a response, his chair suddenly spun itself in several quick circles, pulling his chest and shoulders tight against the straps designed to keep him in place during combat and hyperspace. Blessed, blessed straps. He was glad he remembered to slide into them when he "landed" back in his seat.

"She fights back!" He laughed as his chair quit spinning of its own accord and he managed to slow himself using the console.

Meanie.

Miles smiled to himself. If Red had had a face he would bet his entire bank balance that she would be trying to hide a smile from him right now. He could hear it in her voice.

"That's me." Miles glanced down at the radar display. "Looks like we've got a new contact on the sensors."

Must be them.

==============================

Did Witchspace ever stop being unsettling? The more Rebekah thought about it the more she realized it was a stupid question. There wasn't a single comfortable aspect of the entire process. The strange lights and mists that flew past the ship. Strange images that seemed to hover just out of the corner of your eye. Eerie noises that no amount of ships technicians had ever managed to keep the sensors from recreating--though, Rebekah mused, perhaps the entire process would be even more unsettling without the ghostly noises coming through. She repressed a single shiver at the thought of nothing but lights, silence, and the creaking and shifting of their Lakon Type-9 as it seemingly defied her very limited knowledge of physics. The view laid out before the three of them on the bridge constantly shifted. At times it seemed like they were in some strange cosmic tunnel, then a vast empty space, then the vastness between two dark nebula. Everything in Witchspace seemed so dark. Even the lights seemed dark. That didn't make any sense.

Rebekah had to remind herself to take a breath, as her thoughts wandered on to something someone had written about Witchspace and the passage of time. How it seemed impossible to tell whether the entire process lasted moments, minutes, or months. How every now and again there was that brief feeling of panic--when your mind knows without a doubt that you will never, ever finish the jump. That you'll be stuck spiraling through the darkness forever. Or for several forevers. It's like that sensation of a sudden jolt or quick fall while you're lying down and just about to fall asleep. An entire ship full of jolts and jittery nerves.

Before she could move on to the next thought, the sensors normalized, the ship lurched, and time and space did a little roll. That's the only way she could describe it. Time and space rolled over, and there they were, throttling down and starting to come about as her uncle punched a few commands into what was, no doubt, the navigation computer. She glanced across the space between their seats to get a quick visual confirmation that he was actually, physically there, before turning back to her own console and taking a breath. Her seat was situated on the lower starboard side of the bridge, while her uncle filled the companion seat to the port side. She resisted the urge to crane her head up and try and get a glance at the pilot her father had hired, as she wouldn't be able to get a very good look anyway. The pilot's seat was on the deck above them, at too much of an angle to get a decent enough glance to make sure that the pilot hadn't been left behind in some dusty corner of Witchspace. They were turning, so he must be there.

As they came about, the bright yellow-orange star in front of them slid slowly off to the starboard side, casting an army of synchronized shadows across every switchboard and console on the bridge. Rebekah had no idea how starship canopies were polarized to keep their inhabitants from going blind after every jump, but she was grateful for it. Watching the plasma move and shift, the flares and jets arc and fall, it all helped her to relax a bit after each jump. She wasn't as experienced with long-distance space travel as she wished she were, and therefor needed all the help she could get. For some reason, Witchspace made her feel cold.

A door slid open above deck and her father glided onto the bridge.

Elias Castaneda, slim and wiry, came to rest by placing his hand on the shoulder of the pilot's seat. Together with his younger brother, Eben, he commanded the ship, and the entire mining operation. It wasn't a terribly large business, but it had been in the family for a couple of generations, and the brothers hadn't seen any reason to change careers. Rebekah, herself, wasn't much of a miner but very much enjoyed traveling. Her father didn't generally take her with him for work, but after the divorce her mother had wanted nothing to do with any of them, or that "giant creaking death trap." So she took the house, the dogs, and an entire cellar full of alcohol. She was most adamant about the alcohol.

Irreconcilable differences....

It wasn't just work, this time. They were moving. Partly for necessity, partly to put some distance between her father and a slew of bitter feelings, partly because they knew people in Fusang. Fusang. Odd name for a new home.

The comms beeped.

"Transmission, sir." The pilot turned his head to look at Rebekah's father.

"Our escort. Saying hello."

After another beep and a bit of static, a voice chimed out from the console.

"Gooooood morning, Castaneda Mining." It was a man's voice, and almost annoyingly upbeat.

"Good morning, Commander," her father spoke into the console, using his hand on the pilot's seat to keep him from floating away. "I've got you on sensors but don't have a visual, coming about a few kilometers out. It'll take a few minutes to re-orient and wait for the FSD to cool down.

"No rush. It's nice and quiet out here. And as for the visual contact..."

The Commander trailed off into radio static. A few moments later Uncle Eben pointed out of the canopy toward something that had started twirling in front of them. Rebekah caught a gentle flash of red every now and again as the top of a ship rotated toward them. Her Commander had opened the reactor's heating vents. The vents certainly made the ship more visible, though the twirling was a little silly and mostly unnecessary.

"Great, we've got ourselves a circus clown." muttered Uncle Eben.

Her father, though, smiled.

"Maybe, but he's Pilot's Federation, and fairly high ranking, at that."

Rebekah didn't really know what to think as she watched the glowing red shape dance toward them, still several kilometers out, it was obviously larger than she had originally thought--certainly larger than any escort they had hired before.

"Papi," she shrugged out of her seats shoulder straps, "what is that?"

"Hmm? It's our escort."

Rebekah made a clicking noise with her tongue.

"Yes, I know it's our escort, but it's a large ship, I can't tell..." she trailed off.

"Ohh, that. It's a Python. Registered as the 'Red Herring', according to the info packet they sent us."

"A Python?" she watched the dancing Python fire thrusters and even itself out. Her commander had closed the reactor vents, but they were close enough now to make out some detail. It hadn't been a reflection of the star, the ship really was painted red. "Do we really need such a large escort? Could have saved some expense..."

"Not at all," interrupted her father, "He came very cheap. Lives in Fusang. One of the patrol ships for the mining sites there. Returning with some cargo of his own."

Her father glanced down at the pilot's console.

"Foodstuffs and clothing, mostly. According to the manifest."

Rebekah frowned, "That's strange cargo to bring into a refinery system."

"Ahh," her father cleared his throat, "Yes, well. I'm sure it's probably for the refugees."

Rebekah turned her head quick enough that she had to hold onto her seat to keep from spinning across the bridge.

"Refugees? Papi!"

She could hear a frown in his voice. "Yes. Refugees. Apparently there have been a few conflicts. Nothing big."

"Conflicts?! Great. Well, at least I know why you hired such a large escort."

"Reb..."

"It's fine. Just fine." she sat back and strapped back into her seat. They were getting close to the escort, and their jump point.

Elias Castaneda cast a worried glance down to his daughter, and then looked out the canopy with a creased brow. They had come abreast of the Red Herring, who had come about to face the same direction they were, preparing to jump.

"Ready when you are, folks." Came the smiling voice from the console. Rebekah had a very fleeting desire to punch the owner of that voice. It probably wasn't his fault.

As the pilot and Uncle Eben checked the straps on their seats and punched a few commands into their respective consoles, Elias pushed himself off of, gliding back toward the door he'd entered from. As he twirled to re-orient himself, he called down to his daughter in a slightly pinched sounding voice.

"Don't tell your mother."

Rebekah tightened the straps on her chair and listened to the door slide closed behind him.

"Ready on your mark." called the pilot into the communications console.

Rebekah's fingers closed around her armrests. She had already started to feel cold again.

It's fine. Just fine.

==============================

The jump ended with an all too familiar groan and rattle, and soon Red and the Castanedas were both coming around to match headings toward Cleve Vision--just shy of 1300 Ls from Fusang's nav beacon. As he and Red were waiting for the T-9 to finish its turn, a trio of green blips formed up on his radar and circled the two ships almost lazily. As if on cue, and only a second or two after he had expected it, Red spoke up,

They're scanning us.

"Mhm. System Authority doesn't miss a beat, it would seem."

"Good morning, Commander," came a man's voice from one of the green blips. He sounded very bored. "Identification, please?"

"The Red Herring," Miles spoke in reply, "Commander Miles Walker, Pilot's Federation ID 10644765, Escorting the Castaneda Mining Vessel 'Amistad'."

There was a brief pause.

"Checks out. Welcome home, Boxcar. And..." the security commander paused again, "Scanned your cargo hold...thank you. Wish we saw more loads like yours coming in."

"Of course." he said. He didn't really know what else to say. The Castaneda's T-9 had finished coming around, and both ships were cleared to throttle up to cruising speed. They'd be at Cleve within the hour.

On their way away from the nav beacon, Red picked up a final transmission from the security forces that simply said, "Fly swift, fly careful."

Miles frowned, and for a while nothing happened.

==============================

He wasn't exactly certain how long they'd been cruising. Not longer than a half hour, to be sure. The two ships had passed a checkpoint at about the halfway mark, but other than that Miles had contented himself with watching the traffic flow between Cleve and the nav beacon. Ships heading toward the beacon would stream by like shooting stars, while the faster-moving ones heading toward Cleve would occasionally overtake them and slip toward the station like miniature comets, the wake of their frameshift drives fanning out behind them. Miles occasionally glanced down at the sensors and over to the comm panel. A few private transmissions about damage done to a wedding barge, a few unidentified or unregistered signal sources, and several broadcast advertisements encouraging dedication and devotion to Zachary Hudson (Pledge today! Glory! Honor! Stability!) The propaganda gave Miles indigestion.

One of the shooting stars zipped passed and then slowed down on the radar, coming about and changing direction. Miles watched the blip with an experienced eye and sighed. The ship was behind him, and so couldn't be scanned, but he'd seen that maneuver too many times.

"Don't you do it...don't you do it."

Almost before he saw the little blip speed up and match their trajectory he had tightened his seat straps with one hand and scooped a helmet off of a fastening bracket beside his console.

"Power from engines to systems and weapons, Red," he ducked his head and locked his helmet into place, blinking a little as his suit pressurized and a few lights and displays powered up inside the visor. "we're about to have a visitor."

Of course, Commander.

Miles growled and jabbed at the console to his left,

"Amistad. This is the Herring. Best make sure you've got helmets fastened and seat backs and tray tables in their fully locked and upright positions. In a few moments you're going to be interdicted."

There was no response for a few moments, and then a slightly confused voice,

"What? But I haven't seen anything on the--"

"Trust me, Captain. You've got a friend coming up to give you a sniff, brace for interdiction, once they tether you, throttle back and I'll be right behind you."

"Alright, but we still don't see--"

Whatever the pilot was going to say was cut off by burst of static and a flashing 'WING INTERDICTION WARNING' popping up on Red's console. Miles watched the radar and counted quietly to himself before throttling back from cruising speed and turning about. By the time Red had come around to face the wake of the Amistad, the T-9 had already been wrenched out of super cruise. Miles swore.

"How long?"

Not even a minute, your timing was perfect.

Right, perfect.

The wingman navlock beeped at him and, with the press of a button, Miles and Red dropped out of supercruise to get a good look at whoever was so interested in the Amistad.

By the time they had come around to face the Castanedas, their new friend had already begun firing. Bursts of laser fire stood out quite well against the empty backdrop of space, and the shields of the Type-9 flashed blue at each point of impact, like the ripples in a pool.

"Little help?" came a voice from the Amistad. The bulky freighter was obviously doing it's best to keep the pirates from having any clear shots at important subsystems, while keeping them in sight of her turrets, but it was like watching an asteroid try and pull an Immelmann, not to mention that their pilot didn't appear to be terribly skilled.

The ship attacking them, however, was an Imperial Clipper whose pilot seemed to have a much better idea about the most efficient ways to make something go 'boom'.

"Yeah, yeah," Miles muttered absently into the comms, not really sure if the Amistad picked them up. He switched his transmission over to the local channel in an attempt to broadcast to the clipper.

"Attention new friends, this is the patrol vessel 'Red Herring'. That's our baby you're shaking, and we'd really prefer it if you stopped. We are heavily armed and armored, and will not hesitate to use force."

An unpleasant voice barked back in reply, saying something equally unpleasant.

I think he likes you.

"Life of the party, Red, life of the party." Miles scowled as he gripped the flight controls, "once their shields are down, target the drives and power distributor. We want them lame and de-clawed. Don't want to kill anyone."

Of course, Commander. You softy.

"Hush, you're a softy too."

Red deployed hardpoints just before they came in range of the clipper. The Amistad's shields were getting a little ways below comfortable levels, and Miles wanted to give his new friends something else to play with before they did anything too...expensive.

Hardpoints clicked and Weapons HUD powered up at almost the exact moment they passed the three-kilometer mark.

"Light up the sky, Red."

The two large beams atop the Python flared to life and lit up the entire starboard side of the clipper in a glowing blue bubble. It didn't take the pirates long to come around and face them, but by then Miles had already turned off the flight assist and throttled toward a course below the incoming pirate vessel. Before the clipper could bring her nose down, Red had slid underneath them, belly first, beams firing all the while. By the time the clipper slid out of her crosshairs, its shields were almost completely gone.

"I say again, friends, turn yourselves around before things get too costly."

The pirate once again retorted something very colorful over the comms.

He kiss his mother with mouth?

"I'm not sure I want to know what he does with that mouth, Red. Here comes. Starboard this time."

Red didn't respond, but she once again opened fire on the clipper as Miles expertly strafed to the starboard side, trying to keep them on the same plane as the attacking vessel, as it made it quite difficult for the weapons mounted on the clipper's large pontoons to hit them at the same time. Red's own shields blossomed with bits of blue and gold as a few pulses from the larger ship impacted against the forward and port shields. The weapons didn't really make much of a dent, compared to the punishment they were receiving. What's more, the Amistad had come around and let it's turrets whittle away at the clippers backside. By the time the pirates realized this and slowed to change course, their shields had already failed.

"They should've just boosted past us. Can we close the gap before they finish turning?"

I'm not THAT much slower than they are.

Miles just smiled as the distance between Red and the clipper grew smaller and smaller, at 1.75 km the clipper had finished its turn and both ships boosted at practically the same time.

"Pepper those drives."

The space between the two ships was suddenly full of tracer rounds as Red let spin the multi-cannons flanking the bridge. The vibration of the guns gave off an interesting sort of thrum that Miles could never really tell if he enjoyed, or if it just made him nauseated. Flashes of light and mangled metal began to pepper the engines of the fleeing clipper, who had already started to lose power and control. A few tracers drifted off into space, but most of the rounds found their mark, and after what seemed like both an eternity and no time at all, the entire pirate vessel was jolted by a catastrophic failure of one of her engines. She began to tumble sickeningly through space as the remaining drives evidently lost power and winked out. Miles and Red closed the gap, while the Amistad had long since fallen out of range. He could see the clipper's pilot trying to steady their spin with just the thrusters, with some degree of success.

Miles fiddled with the targeting computer, which was usually Red's job, but seeing as the clipper was dead in the water, he didn't really need any fancy piloting skills at the moment.

"Can cut a neat little hole in the hull with the beams and put a cannon round right on the distributor. Pretty."

Are you telling me how to do my job?

"Of course not, dear."

Good.

Miles definitely heard her smiling.

As they slowly slid under and around the clipper, the same sort of maneuver that had brought Red's beams to bear for their first pass, the lasers on top of the Python flared like an oversized arc-welder, cutting an ugly hole in the formerly beautiful ship. Miles fired the thrusters as they drifted past to line up the cannon under Red's nose (they'd swapped out the Plasma Accelerator for practicality) and it only took one shot for Red to leave the pirates dead in the water, so to speak.

"You scan their life support?"

Fully functional. They have at least twenty minutes.

"System Authority should be here long before then." Miles once again switched comms channels, "Sorry to cut and run, friends, but we've places to be. You're going to have to stay here for a while and think about what you've done."

Miles cut the comms after the first few seconds of the pirates response. It was very loud, and far too belligerent. Some people's children, honestly...

As Red retracted the hardpoints, Miles unfastened his helmet and returned it to the bracket by his console. He took a few steadying breaths in an attempt to lower his heart rate and carefully shook out his arms and hands.

"Well, that was fun."

Ohh yeah. Oodles of fun.

"Spoilsport. How much was the bounty, did you scan them?"

Just over ninety-thousand.

"Ninety-thousand, eh? Huh. How about I treat you to a fresh coat of paint?"

I can't tell if your flirting is adorable or insane.

Miles laughed, "Can it be both?"

Red didn't say anything. Miles just laughed again and adjusted their course back toward the Amistad.

"Lets get these folks safe and sound to their new home. I have a feeling that Mister Castaneda is going to want to have a very long and very grown up conversation with me after this."

Grown up? You? He's going to be sorely disappointed.

"Quiet, you."

Miles smiled once more and pushed the throttle forward.

Oodles and oodles of fun.

[Flip]

I enjoyed reading that, Boxcar. Great job again. Keep 'em coming!

I noticed that a sentence miss a word: "He kiss his mother with mouth?".

[Straylight0]

That's cool, you seem to have the zero-g thing down pat and you can pull of the difficult job of making space combat more than a list of manouvres and actions!

Spotted one little type, think if was off of or of off or something. Did wonder a bit what kind of ship the Castenadas were flying before we knew, although in retrospect all the clues were there (big, needed an escort).

NIce work!

[JohnLuke]

Another great story from Boxcar!

Based on first hand experience flying in the RES with you, I have my doubts about you actually using a KWS though.