Chapter 133: PB - #11 Gone With the Rings

As the Alliance man found out once in the cockpit, the first mapped moon of Saturn wasn’t the only one to intrigue the detection systems. Within the satellite’s AO has gathered a huge fleet of scattered ships. Among them, war cruisers, ice haulers and private cargo ships as well as a multitude of heavy fighters, bombers and rock-fishing vessels from different worlds beyond Jupiter dotted the skies. All displayed the eleven digit registrations and colors of the Rings’ new rebel fleet.

Months before, some inner moons of Saturn and Uranus decided to secede from the Martian Technocracy. A domino effect had finally toppled all the realms around the Deep Rings before reaching Titan, which had seen the dawn of hostilities. Since then, volunteers from the Outer Worlds and renegades from Kuiper had begun to establish the genesis of an army. The small militia had given way to an equally disorganized and inexperienced form, unfortunately equipped with the latest military equipment stolen from the Techno-base on Hyperion.

Because of the Freedom league’s presence, the self-proclaimed capital of the Separatists, had become at least as inaccessible as Titan.

An enraged quack from the angry duck—sleeping on the cockpit communications equipment—acted as an answer.

“Do you think this is going to work?” Fate whispered, catching the escaping tape. She nervously read the handwritten tracklist around the reels.

“Can’t. Gotta stick them to the very long stick between my legs.”

“You gotta be a real pilot to say that, sir.”

The duck quacked loudly before springing on the pilot’s laps.

Miles put the cassette back. “For once, I’m with you, Napoléon,” he gnashed, smashing a flip.

The ship unfolded its flaps. In the copilot seat, Fate could only witness Miles’ ego taking control of the old mining vessel. The latter violently straightened her beak, while continuing her horizontal trajectory in the sidereal void.

“Miles! What are you doing?” Fate panicked.

The thruster strike coupled with the calculated engagement of a new reactor cycle propelled the nef over the enemy fighter. The maneuver was as dangerous as extraordinary.

“It’s a Baltimore-VII…” Miles coughed.

“You are a psychotic man!”

“Enjoyin’ the view?” asked Miles, waving his right hand. The left one anchored to the stick, he maintained an impossible course at several hundred kilometers per hour.

As an answer, the outplayed Separatist pilot jammed all the communications, and dived away.

Fate scolded Miles as she glanced through the windshield glass to see one of the Kestrels flying below their mining ship: “Your provocation was as reckless as unnecessary. We could have been nuked!”

This tale has been pilfered from . If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Miles gave her back the cassette. “That’s because you don’t believe in the power of Blues music…”

She rolled her eyes as she activated the slowing flaps under Miles’ command.

For a moon was in sight.

“What is wrong with your home world? The surface is… moving.” With her finger, she pointed to the swarming mass that waved as they approached.

“Ain’t the surface.”

“What is it then? I read ‘Saturn I’ on the map.”

“Classic ‘borg mistake. Blindly followin’ electronic impulses and blinkin’ interfaces.”

“I am not a cyborg.” Fate pouted before running a scan from the ship’s old analyzer. The report flashed on a monochrome monitor. “(C2H4)n. Polyethylene. Could it be… plastic?”

“Welcome to the heart of Plasticland!”

“This is—this is unbelievable…” Fate stammered.

“It will take thousands of years to clean up…” Fate whispered. “Even with polymer-eating tardigrades.”

Guided by the AI of the civilian control tower, the Alliance ship traversed the thin atmosphere. Recently fully terraformed, Saturn I showed a few clouds still black from the chemicals used to create nitrogen and oxygen, overlooking a desertic surface studded with small dark lakes which once were impact craters. The crew then flew over the Herschel Ocean surrounded on both sides by dangerous corrosive swamps, called “the Bayou” by the locals. Beyond the quagmire, oil fields and derricks stretched across the entire planetoid.

“This world is a really grim place,” Fate noticed.

“You’ve been to Uranus, right? Automated chrome mines and tholin refineries are supposed to be even worse. Are there any moons that haven’t been massacred?”

“I would rather worry about the poor souls living on them…”

“They’re the fuckers muddin’ them…” Miles went on as appeared the walled burg of Nouvelle Patrie on the other side of the black sea. Plastic waste and oil slicks washed against the surrounding buttresses.

“Do you think they have a choice?”

“We all have.”

“What is her business?” Fate asked, hiding her last remaining P-90 ammo in a secret pocket of her faux-leather jacket.

“You ain’t passing through Customs, you know…” he said as he jumped into the passageway. He pointed at her gun and bullets. “The Alliance always has a backdoor just in case a weirdo carries a banned rocket launcher. Or somethin’ more hazardous, even.” He then walked towards the fridge and pulled out a freshly baked potato pie. “For you…”

Fate thanked him while stuffing the cold TT in her bag.

“Ayrelle’s a smuggler/entertainer,” he resumed.

“Runs a fly-in cabaret. Nothin’ too shady but a classic opium den paired with a prostitution ring. She’s an old carnie…” Miles scratched the back of his head. “...and an ex-Belter Soviet Special Forces operative.”

“Excellent.” Fate reacted.

“—and not really a friend. Nasty story. Her husband almost strangled me once—but she owes me a couple of credits in the thousands.”

“Even better…”

“Is there anythin’ else you need?”

“Miles, other than an indecent supply of jerky sticks and cassettes from has-been crooners, you do not own much.”

“Don’t drag the King into this...” he said, pointing to the cassette he offered her. “Forgot Napoléon, though. You want him?”

The angry duck stormed his neck from the passageway, also biting one of his ears. Miles yelled, wrestling the poultry bird who finally fluttered towards the bacon drawer.

“Thanks for everything.” Fate reached out to take his bloody hand.

“Free of charge,” he coughed.

She jumped on the hold floor. Raising her dark eyes, she inquired: “Will you tell me what happened to you? Why the scars and all?”

Miles noticed her change of attitude and saw pity glimmering in her red eyes. “The samurai told you.”

“Yes, he did. Not in details.Who did that to you?”

“Some French guys…” Miles casually answered. Fate lowered her eyes while the Alliance man reached for a jerky stick tucked in his right sock. “We never talked about that but… what are your plans once far from Mr. Turban?”

She sighted. “He will catch me one day, you know. I learned from Goro that there is always someone to catch you. Life is just a short sighted survival game.”

“I see—then, I do not know. I live in the moment,” Fate answered while stepping out of the opening airlock. The damp atmosphere of Mimas invaded the ship. “You have been truly kind to me. I ought to repay you.” She paused on top of the ladder. “Will we meet again for a slice of pie one day?”

“Probably not.”