We Rollin' They Hatin'

[Crash Calestorm 0]

This log is set in our current Mirror Universe plotline...

 

“They see me rollin’. They hatin’. Patrollin’. Trying to catch me Ridin’ Dirty…” – Chamillionaire, Ridin’ lyrics

 

SS Hard Six

Main Cargo Bay

 

The SS Hard Six was a former Oberth-class sciences ship converted for freighter duties. It was a good ship, and had served her -- and the various crew that had come and gone or stayed -- well for the past few years. With the weapons system upgrades that had been installed a few years back, not many chose to mess with the ‘Six either, though they didn’t go looking for trouble.

 

Ashton ‘Crash’ Calestorm stood on the upper catwalk in the main cargo bay, and watched the late shift cargo jockeys deal with the remainder of the supplies that they had taken on board. The tension from the earlier run in with an Imperial ship and defense drones had dissipated, and the lines of her lanky frame were now relaxed due to the night out at the station and some good drinks.

 

The senior deck hand currently on duty, a mercenary lifer by the name of Wilson, waved a hand up at the ship’s commanding officer, positioned at her vantage point. “We’re good Cap’n Crash; all the cargo is bolted down or in stasis or completely hidden.” A mischievous smile played at his facial features

 

Cale ran a hand through her silver blond hair and gave a friendly wave back to the man with her free hand. “Thanks Wilson. Go get yourself some sleep. Real sleep. Stay out of the lower decks card games for a change, know what I’m sayin’?”

 

“No worries Cap’n; not much going on with the cards this week anyway. Night!” He gave her a final parting salute and exited the deck by way of a side access hatch that creaked on its hinges.

 

In the silence following the cargo jockey’s departure, combat boots clumped on the steel support decking of the catwalk, but Calestorm knew who was coming up behind her before he spoke; she smelled the aftershave. Strong arms encircled her waist, and she let herself be pulled back into the embrace.

 

Chris whispered into her ear, the air from his breath tickling her skin. “Excuse me Captain Calestorm, but there’s a rumor going around the ship that we’re riding dirty…”

 

Calestorm turned the statement into blatant innuendo. “Is that an invitation?” She leaned back into the line of his body as Pike’s hands tracked over her chest and stomach. He started fiddling with the belt buckle of her low slung EM phase pistol holster; she glanced down at the now probing hands and smirked to herself.

 

Subtle foreplay, much?

 

‘Riding dirty’ was the accurate statement though. The interior cargo deck was currently stocked with supplies intended for the outer colonies: food, medications, clothes, equipment. The real contraband cargo, hidden under the deck plates, was much more interesting: black market weapons, ammo, travel papers and identifications, and enough credits for the miners and their families of the Halkan held planet of Xanar to start a new life.

 

Empire Command had not been pleased with the Halkan Planetary Council refusing them access to dilithium rights, and now Imperial ships were zipping all over the galaxy bombing Halkan holdings such as Xanar and Micong; anyone in the influence of the sectors and had the time to get out were taking advantage of the opportunity.

 

It didn’t really matter to Calestorm what sort of life the whole lot of the Halkan/Xanar miners embarked on; she had no doubt that some of them would join the rebel resistance cells, others would go mercenary, and still others would disappear to the far corners of the galaxy with their families. And, there would be that determined few who would stay with their profession of choice and attempt to eke out an honest living no matter the odds.

 

The crew of the Six had been hired to evacuate the miners, cripple the processing plant systems by way of EMP surge charges, and do it all very sneaky-like. The money would be good, and all Cale really cared about was the money for her and the crew; if the temporary loss of a colony processing plant messed with the Empire resources, all the better.

 

Regardless, if the ship were to be detained and boarded, the Xanar-bound contraband would mean very long prison sentences for the lot of them if not being shot on sight; therefore, it was good that they had some kick ass technical options to employ.

 

The chief tech geek for the Hard Six had managed to pilfer the operating system program for the M5, a new tactical program being employed by Imperial Command; the mercenary crew had been using the pilfered software to move among the sensitive quadrant security grids un-molested. It was only a matter of time before the master grid codes changed again, but in the meantime she and the crew were enjoying the hell out of the pirated program while they could and going where they damn well pleased without setting off the grid alarms.

 

Pike, a few inches taller then Cale’s five foot nine, rested his chin on the top of her head. “Any word from the Kid?”

 

“Yep, he’s at the main Xanar outpost with Jackie, squaring things away. They’ve been dirt side and among the general population for about a week now, posing as a brother and sister looking for work.”

 

He nodded. “This colony assignment’s a good test for him; he’ll make a good contractor captain some day. Maybe have it a bit easier then we did starting out…”

 

Cale gave a gentle snort through her nose. “I’m glad Jackie went with him; he’s not ready to go on his own as assignment lead.”

 

This had been a matter of debate between Calestorm and Pike, and the parents seemed to talk a lot about their eighteen year old son lately. She had insisted that their top deck hand accompany Cody on the assignment to get the miners ready for the move, and that was the only reason that she had let him go to Xanar for the pre-mission prep work in the first place. Pike was of the mindset that the boy was ready for more responsibility and shouldn’t be held back.

 

But really, the universe was a dangerous place, and no easy answers were forthcoming. Both parents were right in their concerns to varying degrees of the ongoing argument.

 

She changed the subject to internal ships business. “Any complaints among the crew regarding that snafu this morning with the ISS Comanche Creek and the Cold Station Thirteen defense drones?”

 

Chris paused, considering his answer. He wasn’t the First Mate, but he did have access to the rumors and gossip and could act as a go between for his wife and the crew, depending on the situation; it was best to tell her the truth most of the time.

 

He cleared his throat. “Yes and no, depends on who you ask. Cee Es 13 was probably an isolated incident because of the patrol patterns assigned to the Imperial ships, and it was just dumb luck that that psychotic b*tch Coyote --,”

 

Calestorm smirked a bit at her husband’s descriptive language for the Commodore.

 

Thank the gods, Crash had only crossed paths with then Lieutenant Coyote for one tour, and that was early on during Cale’s first official assignment as an ensign pilot. Regardless, there was a certain animosity between the two women even after all these years.

 

She knew that Coyote and Pike had been junior officers assigned to the ISS Kelvin for their dissertations. There had been a certain attraction between the two officers, and they held the universe at their fingertips: romantically involved, model officers assigned to a sought after posting, young and ambitious.

 

Then, after a few years service together, the circumstances changed and Pike and Coyote had parted ways; Chris had often commented over the years if he had stayed with her, Coyote would have killed him Black Widow style.

 

Coyote always wanted more: that next rank stripe, that new battle decoration, the next conquest in bed. Ruthless and cunning, she took her ambition as an officer to a frenetic and frantic level. Now, she held the rank of Commodore and commanded the Kelvin class frigate the ISS Comanche Creek, and seemed determined to carve a swatch through the Outer Sectors in the name of the Imperial Starfleet, though the venue allowed her to flex her ambitions; she served the Empire according to how well it served her.

 

Commodore Coyote would succeed in her efforts, or get herself killed in the process; there wasn’t any gray area with this one.

 

“-- was in command of that ship and responded to the patrol grid ping when we crossed the border. Now, with that said, if I were you I’d circulate among the departments and do some face time with the crew and put everyone’s mind at ease. And, let’s dip into the good liquor stores as well, distribute some of that Romulan Ale among the crew, get everyone relaxed at the next mess meal and cut down on the jumpiness.”

 

The Hard Six had a solid reputation across the galaxy sector grids, didn’t do anything blatant to p*ss off Empire Fleet Command (usually), and had pretty good ‘street cred’ within the professional mercenary circles. As ship’s captain, Calestorm was keen to uphold that reputation, because it meant more jobs and money coming their way. More jobs and money meant that she maintained control of the captaincy and the ship, and the crew would remain loyal and in her employment. They were a good group for the most part, and it was hard to replace seasoned crew.

 

The incident with the defense drones and the ISS Comanche Creek answering the alert had been her fault; she didn’t think to use the long range scanners and the pirated M5 program to pick up on any funny business or to traverse the long way around the civilian held research station, as there had never been a need to cruise cautiously past the station in the past. Then again, the station had never been on the Imperial patrol route before, or employed Empire class drones before.

 

Crash wouldn’t be caught with her britches down like that again…although it would seem her husband had other ideas as his hands continued to move methodically and suggestively, now working on the button and zipper of the denim jeans that she wore.

 

There weren’t many rules on the Six, not like the Imperial warships. One rule was well established however, and her forty plus member crew pretty much followed it -- don’t do it in the main corridors, the mess hall, or the command bridge. Everywhere else was acceptable, and your assigned rack was an even better idea.

 

Calestorm and Pike were in their quarters and naked ten minutes later.