You Can't Escape Your Familia, But You Can Try

The captain known only as Pagangod wandered through the nearly empty, echoing hangers at La Familia's secret deep space base, hollowed out of an asteroid half-way to Oort cloud. The guards had long since gotten careless, deceiving themselves into complacency about the lack of traffic. When he found the ship he was looking for, he spoke quietly into a comm unit, and other crew members converged silently, sliding surreptitiously up the access way.

A few moments later, the startled guards looked up to the roar of a prototype long-range sloop low overhead.

"Theora, set course for Alpha Centauri. Roland, keep the aft weapons hot, just in case they can mount a pursuit." They watched anxiously as the asteroid faded to a speck in the aft portholes. With relief, they realized that they had gotten away cleanly, rather than having to lamely resort to putting on the "secret mission" and "select Imperial charter" routine for the local security force, such as it was.

That relief turned to dread as they found that the galley had been stocked almost exclusively with SPAM and tinned smoked oysters. Either someone had a weird sense of humor or they had weird opinions about expedition food.

Captain Fishboy exited his ship, stretching to iron the kinks out of his fins. The trip back from AC had been long, cramped & dull: he'd watched all 14 of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies several times and the crossword book was far too easy. Pirates are rubbish at creating crosswords since their vocabulary generally consists of "Arrrrr" and "Rum!".

It was good to be back in Sol and would be great to get back into the Dreadnaught that had been lying mothballed for far too long. But first up was snack time, a diet of fish flakes and Soylent Mauve is less than inspiring. Heading into the galley he opened the cupboards but to his horror found them empty! Some miscreant had cleaned him out of all his choicest morsels!

"Who the hell stole my spam and oysters?!"

Dashing to the comms room he quickly scanned for the fleeing pirate. There! A tell-tale engine flare rapidly retreating into the depths of space. The ship signature was unmistakeable - that of his renegade cousin! A perennial hogger of potato salad at family gatherings..

"PAAAGAAAAAAAN!"

Vengeance will be served...

Unfortunately, vengeance would have to be served cold. As would the Oysters and SPAM.

The research department at the base had been trying to cook up a microwave cannon and had used the kitchen facilities from the long-range sloop as starting material. Results had been mixed so far; when fired at dummy ships, the wave did penetrate the shields, but only destroyed the popcorn supply inside.

A debate was raging in the lab whether to increase the power to the forward focusing couplings of the cannon or to start selling gunpowder coated popcorn to rival fleets. JK had somehow found himself embroiled in the argument when he stopped by the lab to check on the stills (and the quality of their output). He was pushing for weapons-grade microwave burritos, but most of the boffins thought that microwave burritos were already weapons-grade and any further research would be a waste of funding.

Funding was already short in R&D because . . .

. . . Emperor Fishboy seemed to have spent several years' budget on some "Search for Fabulous Prizes" in which he was involved. Most of La Familia suspected it was a pyramid scheme set up by the Fillipods to fund their "Expand Fillipod Poetry" initiative, but no one had any proof.

Aboard the sloop, Pagangod and the crew eyed the contents of their larder. A few microwave burritos marked by hand with "Biohazard", "Buttery" flavored microwave popcorn, "New! Improved!! Saltpeter Flavored Popcorn" and lots of spam and tinned smoked oysters. The first few items were going to be hard to stomach, especially since someone had taken the microwave from the sloop's galley. While most of the crew wondered aloud about cooking in the drive exhaust and whether the was any nutritional value in coolant fluid, Pagan was worried about larger issues.

He thought he knew where whoever stocked the larder had gotten the spam and oysters. He thought the Emperor would not be pleased. Perhaps the mysterious official that had assigned him to lead this mission had not been entirely honest with him. Was he being set up? Crossing the Emperor, who was quite easily made cross, was never a good idea. Who had stocked the larder? Who was the mysterious official, really? And who was really calling the shots anyway . . ..

A resounding CLANG rang through the tiny ship as Redbeard whacked his head on bridge hatch - for the third time that morning. Muttering under his breath about "stoopid sloops" and "lazy emperors that can't run their own errands" he turned sideways and ducked his head to go through the hatchway, then promptly got the horns of his anachronistic helmet stuck in the acoustic padding that lined the bridge ceiling. It wasn't the first time he regretted taking on a viking persona, and it wouldn't be the last.

fishboy had obviously been deep in his cups when he contacted Redbeard and had raved on for several minutes about the "important ambassadorial mission to another fleet" that prevented him from chasing down the "renegade cousin" who had made off with "vital Familia secrets". Everyone knew he was just partying at the FDR headquarters and was only upset because he was supposed to supply the hor d'oeuvres. Rumor had it that several FDR fleet leaders had been badly burned when his last minute substitute had mysteriously exploded.

That still left Redbeard cramming his massive frame into the tiny sloop, dreaming whistfully of his beloved (and spacious) dreadnought. Somewhere in the AC a pirate named Pagangod awaited him - and wasn't that just a pretentious name for a 2nd rate cousin! At least he had been smart enough to load his own provisions and make sure the microwave worked. Now if only he could find a place to stow his axe....

Pagan carefully charted his approach to la Familia's secret deep space base. There had clearly been some undercurrents about his mission that he had not known when he set out, and he was unsure of the reception he would get. Although he and his officers had learned much in Alpa Centauri, it had been a hard tour, and their undercover status had left them in combat with members of la Familia on a regular basis. In one encounter, Redbeard had shot part of Pagan's name off so thoroughly that not even the regenabots could repair it.

Scans of the station showed no ships capable of taking on the the Warship, enhanced with AC technology, that had long since replaced the "stolen" sloop. After directing Theora Jones, the crew's expert technician, to deactivate the cloak and reactivate the long-disused Grande y Felicissima Armada encoded identifier beacon, Pagan opened the channel to the station's traffic control, "This is the PeaceBreaker, requesting docking routing."

"Oh, hey, didn't see you there, transmitting the routing now."

Along with the routing came seven months of vid packets containing fleet news and directives and, of course, seal pictures from science officer of the Machito. And, at the very end, one from his mysterious contact:

"Welcome back. You are now assigned to pirate suppression patrol, target [705] Blitzen."

Well, at least that was straight-forward. Just keeping space safe from . . . wait. Blitzen? Why was that familiar? Scanning back through the archives, Pagan found some records that jogged his memory. Captain Blitzen, then affiliated with a different pirate gang, had been the scourge of the shipping lanes nearly a year previously. Pagan remembered having some unfortunate encounters himself. Now Blitzen was in The John Bigbootay, a dreadnaught, mk II at that. Oh great . . . Pagan began to dig into the intelligence reports. Distracted, he barely noticed as the ship docked and the last of his officers was quietly sneaking down the access way. At the last moment, he managed to trip Jones, haul her back aboard, and lock her in in her stateroom. "I'm gonna need some kind of boost to deal with this," he muttered.

The reports showed that Blitzen was terrorizing shipping between the central solar system and the outer environs, making it somewhat logical that Pagan deal with him on the way back in to the central planets. Unfortunately, the main Familia armories resided on those same, central planets. Pagan wondered if he could take on the the larger dreadnaught with what the warship PeaceBreaker had equipped, but it was hard to think with Jones' incessant pounding on the bulkhead. "Hush up Jones! We are going to need your expertise with the engines to get the drop on this #*@%$#! Why don't you look through the station manifest and see if there is anything there we can use?" Pagan mused at his own choice of words, wondering what it meant to get the drop on someone in zero-g. The pounding stopped and he saw the traffic indicators on the communications router light up. He just hoped that Jones was searching the manifest.

Apparently Blitzen had his ship configured as a Hammer, more weapons than shields and engines combined. "Let's see, if we start by layering on all the shields . . . JONES! Belay the manifest search for now and see what you can do about hacking the AI! Get us whatever you can for the weapons, shield and drives that will last about an hour and not permanently damage anything critical." A few minutes passed and they had simulations suggesting that, with the AI enhancements and all but two of the hard-points loaded with their strongest shield generators, the PeaceBreaker would be able to shrug off the barrage likely to come from The John Bigbootay's weapon arrays.

"Well, we can stand up to his beating, but we need to give him something in return. Jones' touch with the engines, plus the AI should let us . . . uh . . . out maneuver . . . the Bigbootay, but we need something to hit with." Normally Pagan might have mounted his pair of upgraded Graviton Beam Arrays. They probably wouldn't get through the shields directly, but they would be able to grind the dreadnaught down with time. But the idea of getting into a protracted battle with the wily pirate did not appeal; Blitzen might have something up his sleeve. Pagan needed something to decisively punch through Blitzen's defenses. Especially since the regenabots would just let the scum keep coming back. It would be best to send a strong message.

The most firepower the PeaceBreaker packed in a single weapon was Pagan's beloved plasma cannon. The weapon was a bit finicky and Jones would have to be careful not to get a "flashback" affect on the PeaceBreakers engines, but the cannon packed a real punch. If only there was something with comparable fire power. Jones' voice broke in over the intercom, "Captain, there's nothing obvious, but there is something intriguing. The records reminded me that many of the crews assigned to Alpha Centauri mothball some of their equipment here. They aren't required to catalog what they've stored, but we might be able to snoop around the storage bays." Pagan considered, was Jones just looking for an opportunity to escape? It was possible, but she was usually reliable once she got roped into the assignment.

Two hours and about three dozen crates later, Jones let out a "Whoop!" and waved Pagan over with the sonic screwdriver she'd been using. Pagan eyed the crate warily, it was clearly marked as Redbeard's equipment, and he wasn't eager to escalate any existing antagonism with the anachronistic but extremely capable captain. Pagan and seen Redbeard come through an entire campaign, destroying enemy warships at will without once getting caught out by the dreadnaught assigned to protect them. And Redbeard had only been in a sloop in Alpha Centauri when he'd so brutally shot up Pagan's name. AND Pagan didn't know why Redbeard carried that axe, and he wasn't interested in being on the receiving end to find out.

What Jones had found inside made him decide it might be worth the risk, although it also increased it. The pulsar beam weapon that lay in the crate was meticulously polished and packed away. So much as a scratch on the manifolds would be obvious. They carefully closed the crate and quietly snuck it onto the PeaceBreaker. On board, they raided the engineer's stateroom for the mattress and blankets to gently unpack the weapon onto the floor of the hold, near one of the two forward hard-points. After an hour of careful work, the lethal pulsar beam was mounted along side the plasma cannon. They compromised a little during the installation to make sure that they would leave little trace of their use, "unless we take a hit to the nose," fretted Pagan. Their simulations now suggested that they should be able to cut Blitzen's shields, and hull, to ribbons during a surprise attack.

Having restocked the larder with string cheese, crackers and chocolate, they cleared the PeaceBreaker for transit toward the inner solar system via Pluto. In transit, Pagan monitored the intelligence feed for news of Blitzen. At the Pluto transit point, their luck turned for what he hoped was the better. Blitzen had attacked and raided an Armada ship near Saturn, and was being tracked toward Neptune. Pagan programmed a course for Neptune and entreated Jones to get everything she could out of the engines. They finally caught up on final approach, closing in on The John Bigbootay from behind using a gravitational slingshot around Galatea, their approach obscured by the moon itself.

The firing protocol carefully zeroed in on Blitzen's engines, refining the targeting to get an exact lock. True to form, the protocol unleashed the first fusillade just as the other ship's sensors registered the impending attack. The combined pulsar and plasma barrage tore through the dreadnaught's shields and into its hull, scattering debris into a rapidly expanding cloud. The damage was enough to decapitate the Bigbootay, not just incapacitate it. Just as Pagan thought he might have found a lasting solution to the pirate scourge called Blitzen the barrage cut off and, as a cloud of regenabots became visible around the wreckage, the weapons control screen flickered the familiar message: "Weapons auto-shutdown. Regenabot interlock activated. Firing on regenabots is not allowed." Pagan grumbled into his beard and wondered whether, with all they had learned in Alpha Centauri, they might one day bypass the AIs' prohibition. In some ways, he supposed that he hoped not.

Still, it was a satisfying result. Blitzen, may the whipped cream on his waffles curdle, would be occupied in the Neptune ship yard for a while. Just as he was about to put his feet up for a self-congratulatory rest, the vid packet viewer sprang to life. Not video, just the audio from the mysterious contact, "Good job on this assignment. I just thought you might like to know, Redbeard is expected to return from Alpha Centauri shortly."

"JONES! Route everything we've got to the engines! NOW!" Pagan yelled, frantically charting the fastest course back to the deep space base. Once underway, with the engine overload warning alarms occasionally whining, they carefully dismounted the pulsar beam from the hard-point and oh-so-carefully polished the still warm surfaces and repacked it carefully in the crate. As the PeaceBreaker received its landing routing, traffic control picked up another ship at the very limits of the sensor array's range, incoming from Alpha Centauri. As soon as the PeaceBreaker touched down, Pagan cycled the back ramp from the hold open and they started a mad dash for the storage bays, pushing the crate on a glider. Arriving breathless, they carefully lowered the crate into its same footprint in the dust. In what he hoped would be a taken as a peace offering, should the use and user ever be discovered, Pagan carefully set on top of the crate one of the bottles of Finely Aged Alpha Centauri Rum that he had acquired on the long previous assignment. "Even if he's tired of everything else from that forsaken star system, he'll still probably appreciate that."

"Right, let's . . . ," but he realized he was talking to himself. Sometime during the moment it had taken him to put the bottle on the crate, Jones had disappeared. Swearing softly at the amazing ability that officers have to make themselves scarce, he quickly returned the glider to the hold on the PeaceBreaker and lifted out of the landing bay, requesting immediate routing toward the Lower Belt station. "Roger that, PeaceBreaker. Routing sent. Safe travels." Pagan left the comm unit tuned to the traffic control hailing channel as he quickly revved up the drives and promptly followed the routing away from the base. As the PeaceBreaker rounded the first asteroid and lost line of sight to the base, he heard "Ahoy, Defenestrator, we have you on final approach. . .."

Redbeard was in a mellow mood as he cruised slowly towards la Familia's deep space base, laughing out loud at some of the directives that were coming in. True, he hadn't accomplished his original mission of tracking down and capturing Pagangod, but his one, brief encounter with that pirate had convinced him that was probably just as well. Besides, the latest ramblings from fishboy suggested that he had completely forgotten sending Redbeard after Pagangod in the first place, instead re-directing all the fleet's energies in to finding more baby seal pictures.

As the docking clamps lock his Warship in place, Redbeard stood up and patted the console fondly. The despised sloop was long gone, and the Warship had proved so capable that he would almost regret leaving it to return to his Dreadnaught. Sure, it couldn't take the pounding that his D1 could, but no Dreadnaught ever handled so sweetly, and they had been through a lot together. Lost in memories of battles fought and riches won, Redbeard strode through the ship. The resounding CLANNNGGG! of his helmet striking the aft personnel hatch startled him back in to the present and reminded him why he had bought a Dreadnaught in the first place. Stooopid Warships!

A few hours later the Dreadnaught was aired out, warmed up, and ready to go, the only remaining task before heading to the central planets and the arms markets they held was to get his beloved Pulsar Beam out of storage. This was Redbeard's first (and currently only) VR weapon, and he had been obsessive about it's care - the custom chrome work and polished manifolds were a beauty to behold. As he approached the crate containing the weapon he was surprised to find a bottle of Finely Aged AC Rum sitting on it. The note on the bottle indicated it was from Pagangod, who seemed to have matured greatly during his time in the AC and had even shortened his name to a much less pretentious "Pagan". Smiling, Redbeard tucked the bottle in to his carryall and picked up his crate with a nearby grav cart. Maybe he had been a little hasty in calling Pagan a "second rate cousin" - the man was turning out to be a downright decent bloke and a very capable captain!

Back aboard the Defenestrator, Redbeard unwrapped the Pulsar Beam. To his surprise, it had been so well sealed that it did not even to be polished after it's long storage. Slightly disappointed, he put away the polishing cloths and got to work re-mounting the beautiful weapon. His smile returned as he saw the docking bay lights reflected in the chrome, and he leaned forward to wipe of an imaginary spec of dust. It was then that he saw it, up underneath the port manifold, invisible but for the bright work lights, a scratch...

"PAAGAAAAAN!!!"

:uhoh: