Trojan Mule

[Crash Calestorm 0]

Planet Goram

05:45 AM

 

With the sun beginning to clear the horizon on Goram, one might have considered it a pretty day if they all weren’t flying straight towards an abandoned base occupied by the Lunatic Jester Horde, yet another faction of smugglers and thieves looking to make a name for themselves at the expense of innocents.

 

Leading from the front - to the dismay of both the Doctor and Commander Wesley, after all she was just getting some air - Crash Calestorm stood half in the entry way of the Mule, one boot planted on the extracted entry ramp as tow lines held her in place. Tactical goggles protected her eyes from the grit and dirt kicked up by the exhaust and travel velocity.

 

The red kerchief that Cale fisted flapped in the upshot of winds as Shan “Deathwish” Shalin deftly maneuvered the big Mule in a hover pattern a couple hundred feet away from the base. In days past, a sea faring ship hoisting a red flag* indicated that they were carrying or discharging dangerous goods. Through the centuries the symbol had been skewed from maritime use to space and now used primarily by smugglers and pirates.

 

The signal now meant “I have goods to discharge”.

 

Since she hadn’t been shot off the entry ramp, she considered that a good sign. She ordered into her ear mic, “Bring us down inside the main outside compound area, Deathwish.”

 

= = = =

Now extracted from the safety harness, Calestorm stood on the entry ramp. Her body posture was outwardly relaxed but at total odds with her mind as every iota of her reflexes and self-preservation screamed at her to get the hell down and out of the way.

 

The frayed boonie hat she’d acquired from one of the marines cast her upper face in shadow. Her face was dirty from the travel and the flight jacket completed the quick disguise; she looked like any other flea bitten space scrounger.

 

And she made damn sure to keep her hand on the Diatron* blaster slung low on her hip, thank you very much.

 

Two Lunatics approached the Mule warily, weapons not drawn but held at the downward ready. These guards – one man, the other a woman – looked tired and had obviously been on night guard watch.

 

Other members of the smuggling outfit mulled around, not quite interested in what was going on as the base occupants sleepily shook off the partying effects of the night before. Several Jesters lay sprawled in the courtyard and Crash could make out a small outbuilding that had obviously been converted into a cantina.

 

They wore jackets, long coats or ponchos in varying shades of red, indicating the gang colors.

 

She subvocalized in spurts, giving the officers and crew inside the Mule and those on approach under cover on foot updates but the small digi-camera embedded in one lense of the goggles transmitted the main tactical information to the comm devices and data slates everyone carried.

 

The female spoke first. “What’dya want?”

 

“Negotiate trade. I got a Mule-class acquired from Starfleet and I want to sell it for scrap or whatever.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the large support vessel.

 

“What’ve you in mind?”

 

“Uh huh. Nope. I want to speak to your Boss.”

 

“How do you know I’m not the boss?”

 

“Sweetie, if you were the leader of this bunch? You wouldn’t be out here on guard duty picking your nose.”

 

The male muttered an oath and started to swing his rifle up. His companion started backing away and made no move to hoist her own hardware, obviously intending to go ahead and let him get himself killed; so much for teamwork.

 

Crash didn’t move a muscle. Please, speak up. Come on, come on come on….where are you…

 

“Enough!”

 

A gravelly voice rang out from the shadows between two of the forward structures and a tall figure appeared. Crash made a quick assessment of the newcomer: Blue skin, maybe from Andorian stock, head shaved mostly bald with only a shock of white hair styled in a mohawk. The long red leather jacket, the cocky gait…yeah, this here was the leader of the Jesters.

 

“Greetings. Glad you decided to join the party. You got a name?”

 

“I think I should ask you that.”

 

She cocked her head to one side. “Just call me Quincannon.” It was her mother’s maiden name. “Business associates call me Loose. Are we going to do business Mister…?” She let the question trail off in anticipation.

 

“Yondu.”

 

“Okay Mister Yondu, what’s next?”

 

He sauntered closer to the entry ramp and eyed the Mule. “You snagged this piece of equipment? From a Starfleet team? No way.”

 

Crash spread her arms in an act of exasperation. “Mister, it’s called tactical scrounging. We snuck up on ‘em and boom. Things happened and we managed to fly off in this nice little piece of mechanical ass.”

 

Inwardly she winced at her crude choice of wording. Why couldn’t they run into a genteel pirate or some such one of these days?

 

The bandit leader gave the Starfleet Mule another visual once over and then turned his attention back on Calestorm. He jerked his chin towards her, the gesture actually intended towards the flight jacket the middle aged captain wore. “Looks like you’ve seen some action.”

 

The various dings, burns and rips were from years of wearing it but Cale kept up the bravado and replied with a simple “Yeah, action.” followed by a shrug.

 

She pulled a piece of fabric hidden inside the jacket and tossed the command gold shirt that she’d stripped off less than a half hour ago. The scrapped fabric flew outward to land at the bottom of the ramp; she had hastily burned it with a phaser to further add to the ruse.

 

“You know how things can happen in this business.”

 

Silence.

 

“And I heard through the off-channel chatter that some of your guys tangled with the Comanche Creek fighters…figured you wouldn’t mind paying for some payback, so to speak.” She rapped on the hull of the Mule with her knuckles.

 

Yondu continued to eye her.

 

“If not? I know there are other buyers out there interested in prime Feddie equipment.”

 

The mohawked leader held up a hand. “Now, wait a minute, I haven’t said I ain’t interested.”

 

Crash gave a brilliant smile, all teeth. “Well, Sir, if it’s all the same to you, myself and my guys have just stolen AKA acquired Fleet equipment…I’d like to skip the pleasantries and start this shindig - NOW!”

 

The shout was the agreed upon signal for the Trojan teams inside the Mule and the MARDET and Security teams - who had been sneaking up to the compound though the fields - to move and swarm the base.

 

The captain swiftly dove off to the side of the ramp and pulled the Diatron, firing three plasma stun discs in quick succession; the two guards were clipped and went down but the third shot went wide and missed the Lunatic leader.

 

Yondu bolted for cover as all Hell broke loose.

 

To Be Continued In Sim…

 

 

Notes:

* Maritime Flags: https://en.wikipedia...Code_of_Signals

* Diatron (visual aide): http://nerf.wikia.com/wiki/Diatron (Nerf or nothing!)