The glowing blue beam lit up the atmosphere, reflecting off the grains of sand in the dust storm, and ripped into the oncoming war machine. The groaning creak of metal grinding against steel reverberated through the cockpit as Charlie slammed the brakes to a dead stop, instantly backpedaling to avoid a collision. Narrowly missing her opponent’s Battle Crane, Charlie shook out her long hair, the purplish, lavender hue glowing oddly in the sand-fog under the scorching crimson sun, and she thrust her fist outward, the arm of her Sparrowhawk Mecha mimicking her gesture, punching the foe’s smaller, less-armored Crane in the head.
“You fucking cunt! My computer's fried; I’m out of here.”
“You owe me a drink after the battle, Chris. See you when the smoke clears.”
She paused her Battle Crane, slowing down to allow her opponent to jettison from the hulking, metal hull, lest he be crushed underfoot, and then veered off to the side, blasting another foe in the back, their Crane smoking, then erupting in a brilliant flash.
“Somebody send medical over to Justin’s Buzzard, please. He looks a little rattled from my tough love,” Charlie broadcast on the common comm.
Then, over her group’s private channel, she screamed, “And will somebody please get this tank off my butt? The last time anything was that far up my ass, it bought me dinner first.”
“On it, Captain,” Shanta chimed in. “But I get to go up your ass, deal?”
“No fair. It’s my turn. I could use a piece of ass.”
“I don’t care how hard you fuck my ass; you’re not getting a raise, Roulph. Speaking of ass, there’s one I need to kick. Has anyone seen Geoff’s new Crane? I owe that motherfucker.”
“Why, what’d he do, cum too soon?” Roulph’s laughter came through the comm with a static-contaminated warbling, explosions throwing EMP pulses all around.
“No,” Shanta laughed. “He stole her panties!”
“When did you start wearing them? That’s news, boss lady.”
“Shut the fuck up and kill something, will you? Those damn bills won’t pay themselves.”
“Fuck! I think I just stomped on the video crew’s truck by mistake. Sorry, fuckers; all’s fair in love and war.”
“And it’s definitely war, Shanta. Please tell me it was the Red Corona Network. Did you guys see how badly they butchered my last interview? Take out that lying Mercedes bimbo along with the truck, and I’ll give you a big bonus.”
“As big as your ass?”
“Go fuck yourself. I have a sweet, little ass. I was told that three times last night.”
“Yes, you do. I fantasize about it all night long.”
“But you were with me last night, Roulph.”
“I know. Still though. On your four o’clock, Shants. Look out.”
“I like a threesome, but this is more like a gang bang. A little help here. There’s too many of them.”
Charlie spun her bird, a giant metal, robotic, humanoid-shaped mecha, turning the torso into a nearly impossible angle, and she pedaled the lumbering arsenal into a fake reverse, then lunged forward, weapons coming to bear.
“Easy as one,” her slug-firing Gauss rifle erupted with a thunderous report, electric-blue sparks shooting out of the barrel along with the heavy projectile. “Two,” her other Gauss fired, hitting the same exact spot her first shot had targeted, dead-center torso. “Three!” Her final shot, from the arm-mounted particle cannon, knocked the Osprey back, and it fell prone with a grinding, metallic clunk. The cored Crane’s body lay there for a second, convulsing, then erupted in a multicolored plasma explosion as the cockpit jettisoned and skidded away.
“Who’s next? Mamma’s hungry for little of the ultra-violent.”
“Wow,” Rouplh exclaimed. “Did you see that beach? Once we clear the field, what say you that we break out the boards and catch some waves? It’s been a while since we had a beach party.”
“Count me out, but you kids go ahead. You’ve earned some R-and-R.”
“Party pooper. Don’t like the beach?” Roulph’s voice descended into some guttural growls as he perforated a V-tol copter that was raining death down on them. “Suck it, fly-boy. Happy landings.”
“No, Big-R,” Shanta laughed. “Charlie don’t surf!”
“Get your heads in the game, lovebirds. Apocalypse now, party later.”
“Fuck! Who the fuck out there is targeting the cockpit with ballistics? That one messed up my hair.”
“You’re so hot with your hair all messy, Charlie. Sorry about that. It won’t matter in a minute, though; I’m going to roast your turkey.” Her opponent’s voice was jovial.
“Fat chance, Beauford, I’ve seen your baster; it isn’t even long enough to penetrate my armor, let alone roast me.”
“Oh yeah. The last time you were begging, slut. Eat lasers.” Beau’s Crane, a smaller variant of the Hawk, spewed multicolored beams of light into Charlie’s Sparrowhawk.
“Thanks for the massage; your shoe’s untied.”
The famous pilot’s Crane was vastly superior in firepower, and her twin Gauss rifles blew out Beau’s Mecha’s knees, making his Battle Crane limp, moving slowly. A burst of hellfire, all of her lasers focused on the Hawk’s legs, swept back and forth, cutting the legs off the newer but lighter piece of hardware.
“Woo-hoo! That really evens the odds. What is it? Fifteen to one, now?”
“Fourteen,” Shanta screamed. “Thirteen; unlucky for her, you rookie! Twelve.”
“You go, Shants!”
Explosions, gunfire, rockets, and more exploded all over, unrelenting and pervasive. It was a galaxy-wide miracle that no new mercenary fatalities had been recorded in over six months. Charlie and her crew, calling themselves Pagan Vengeance, strolled through the chaos, meting out destruction to anyone in their path.
A rising star, Charlie was currently one of the hottest, most famous mercenaries in the galaxy. Her name and face were known in every sector, and sexy posters of her adorned bedroom walls on scores of the settled worlds. There were even sex bots modeled after her, which she took as a compliment, albeit a perverted one.
She was a mercenary, a warrior for hire, and while she did enjoy her celebrity status, she was known as something of a rebel to the media. She didn’t play up to them in search of higher ratings. The wars could be televised or not, as far as she was concerned; she was in it for the thrills as well as the money. She was ambivalent that war was now the main source of entertainment for the masses, galaxy-wide. It had its perks, but being on camera every second of every day could be daunting.
“Looks like Solar Flares Incorporated is playing with knives on their new Chicken Hawks. Did you see the size of that one’s sword? Melee weapons versus missiles don’t seem fair.”
“I’m a Chicken Hawk, and you’re a chicken!”
“Keep your distance, Roulph, and take it out at range. Melee weapons may seem a bit silly, gladiatorial, but one or two hits from that claymore, and you’ll lose an arm.”
“I’m invincible! Besides, if you don’t have it, you wield it in battle. Overcompensation!”
“I don’t think there’s enough steel in all the worlds to compensate for your lack of endowment.”
“Still too big for your mouth, and that’s saying a lot, Shanta. Watch me duke it out with the little birdie.”
“The fuck you say! If you fuck up your Crane, it’s coming out of your pay.”
“I got it. Watch this!”
“Cool moves, Rook! I told you that going heavy on the Auto-cannons was a good layout for your Night Owl. Now, clean up your mess like a good boy.”
“It was ‘Sex god’ last night, Shants. Why the demotion?”
“Because you fight like the local militia fucks; slow and sloppy. You suck ass, Roulph.”
“You like it when I suck your ass. Hey, Charlie! Isn’t that your boyfriend over there?”
“Hiya, Geoff?” Charlie laughed over the communal comm. “I’ve come to collect my pay and thong panties. Give them to me or feel my wrath.”
“Hey, babes. Didn’t you say the same thing the night I got your panties? Bring your best. You’ll never penetrate my new armor. Why did you stop your bird? Afraid of me and my giant cock?”
In her trademark move, what the media called The Dazzler, Charlie screamed a long, drawn-out shriek, firing all her lasers at once, blinding her foe. Precisely aimed, exactly why she’d stopped her lumbering, stomping Crane, the concentrated beams cracked the cockpit glass.
“When I’m done spanking you, I’m going to tie you down and gag you with my panties, fuck-face.”
“I’ll fuck your face, you purple-haired whore!”
”Promises, promises. Eat shrapnel.”
Her twin rifles fired, the souped-up particle cannon finishing the job. Smoke, then flames, erupted from Geoff’s Battle Crane, followed by him leaping from the mechanized technology of destruction, landing in a roll. His Battle Crane, the motor destroyed, just stopped, not even falling over, and slumped there. Where it stood.
“How much did that fancy armor run you? I think you should try to get a refund. My panties, your mouth. Later, babe.”
“The next we meet, I’m going to do unto your ass the same as you did to my bird! You’ll rue the day.”
“Rue? Isn’t that a light gravy? It’s a date.”
“Fuck, I lost my arm! Help!” Shanta screamed, her voice distraught. “There goes my fucking bonus.”
“I’m coming. Hang in there, Shanta.”
“Damn, Charlie, that’s some sharp shooting. Thanks.”
“Good one, Captain. That one whizzed by my head so fast that I thought I was doomed. Glad it’s you. That’s some real William Tell shit, there.”
The battle raged for hours. To the mercs, it was simply another day on the job. While the reality was gritty and held real danger, as pilots do occasionally die, the rewards matched the risk. Fame, fortune, glory, and lots of young, nubile groupies who would do anything to sleep with you weren’t a terrible trade-off for those who did well. The scrapyards, however, were filled with the burnt-out husks of what used to be the Battle Cranes of the young and foolish.
When humanity took the stars, the way things had been disappeared into the annuls of history. It wasn’t just a brave new world; it was a dozen, then dozens, then hundreds. Mankind had mastered the stars. Most current humans have never set foot on Barnard’s Star, let alone Terra. But, along with the new frontiers came new challenges.
The League of Planets, as it was originally named, first sought to unify the Terran sphere and its outlying settlements. Over the years, spanning a few centuries, governing so many worlds, so far apart, became too cumbersome to bear. Local governments, confederacies, and corporate conglomerates staked their claims. With so many vast and varied interests looking to gain profits, resources, and power, disagreements erupted, soon evolving into interplanetary wars and rivalries. As it was too costly to maintain constant, interstellar armies, mercenaries became the primary source of military might. Then, the media got involved.
Live coverage of battles grew into broadcasting the complete wars. Humankind, throughout the entire sphere, quickly grew addicted to the real-time chaos, and the mercenaries who piloted the powerful, robotic weapons that were the Battle Cranes became the new celebrities. They were the new sports heroes, except the action was real and deadly.
“Almost done cleaning up this sorry planet. Hey, Sophie, how many more do we need to kill?”
Sophie, Pagan Vengeance’s Star jumper pilot and eyes in the sky, spoke then, her voice sounding tinny due to her being in orbit. “Just you and a few of Dexy’s crew are left. Unless they’re hiding reinforcements, I think we’ll take the day.”
“The Midnight Runners!? I hate those dirty birds. Is Dexy on deck? I owe him for laying me up for three weeks.”
“Oh, like lying in bed while sexy nurses fawn over the big, famous Bird Jockey is so horrible, Roulph.”
“Weld it shut, kids. Break time is over.”
“Um, exactly when were we on break, again?”
“Shut the fuck up and fight.”
Battered and bruised, but none the worse for wear, Pagan Vengeance emerged victorious. Their Cranes, as they were called, were pockmarked and rented with holes, tears, and dents. The pilots, however, suffered nothing more than a few bruises, some overheating, and the jitters that always follow putting one’s life on the line.
“Oh, look!” A buxom blond reporter squealed. Her cameraman, easily spotted due to his eyes glowing blue when he was recording, looked right at Charlie. “It’s the infamous Charlie X.” She trotted over, her big boobs bouncing in her skimpy top, her pink slit sporadically exposed when her tiny skirt flipped up as she jogged. “Time for a few questions?”
Over the centuries, news and entertainment have blended into the same entertainment venue. While the archaic term, television, was still used, the onslaught of information, disinformation, propaganda, and entertainment permeated every form of communication. Reporters were both sources of data and entertainers. Because of that, they dressed provocatively and were known for their outrageous exploits throughout the settled sphere.
Charlie sighed, looking to her crew mates for immoral support, but they were likewise occupied. “I guess just a few. I need a fucking shower, a hard cock, and a wet pussy.”
“First off, why are they called Cranes?” the blond woman began.
Charlie laughed at that. For a moment, she’d forgotten what a backwater planet Dogon IV, sometimes called the dust bowl, was. It was a standard, lead-in question, and Charlie had given the same speech on countless worlds.
“Hundreds of years ago, before we could travel to the stars, there were these big, metal machines, called cranes, used for constructing large buildings and objects. Eventually, as technology improved, they became much smaller and evolved into large but mobile exo-suits. A single human could lift several tons while wearing these exoskeletons, and, since they replaced the archaic cranes, they were also called cranes. In the Reaper Wars of the twenty-first century, some pinned-down soldiers welded armor on one, strapping weapons to it, and the first Battle Crane was born. The moniker of ‘Crane’ and the affection of naming the models after birds is a callback to our history.”
“See, Humes,” the television personality sang into the microphone. “Brains as well as lethal beauty. So, if you’re so sexy, smart, and lethal, why aren’t you married?”
“Because I have a kink for bubbly blonds with big tits.”
Charlie had to hide her smile when the woman’s jaw drooped, her cheeks blushing. The cameraman focused on the announcer, laughing hysterically, which allowed Charlie to slip away, heading toward the temporary bar that had been air-dropped a few leagues away from the battlefield.
War and conflict were big business in the sphere. Every time a battle would occur, or a war would erupt—which they often did—a plethora of enterprises sprung up alongside the various mercenary encampments. Bars, mini-hotels, medical services, and entertainment of every ilk were dropped into place, creating a carnival-like atmosphere just outside the war zones. Performers, groupies, sex workers, repairpersons, and merchants cavorted about, all hours of the day and night. The tavern Charlie marched toward was just another typical specimen.
“Wait! Charlie! I have more questions. Why is your last name X? Do you have any retirement plans? Who’s your next victim, I mean opponents? Are you really working for House Danzeen? Are you really into blond women?”
She stopped and turned, smirking at the bouncing blond as she hurried to catch up. When she was close enough, Charlie flipped her oddly-colored hair back, grabbed the woman by the waist, and pulled her in for a kiss. While shocked, the broadcaster didn’t resist; she even moaned into Charlie’s mouth as she reciprocated, giving as good as she got.
“I need a drink. Come with me if you want to cum. But after I get zark-faced, I’ll want some love. Your choice.” Charlie neglected to mention that the press was not allowed inside the establishment. It was a merc bar; no “squibs,” as they called the media, were allowed.
The blond just stood there, panting. Charlie shrugged, then walked toward the tavern. Had it not been for the fact that the tavern was recently dropped into place, the outer shape and shell identifying it as a mobile building, it could have been any dive bar on any planet in the sector. The rough and tumble patrons, mercs mostly, plus their staffs, groupies, sycophants, and camp-followers, were typical, except for maybe the bits of body armor, arsenals of weapons, and scars.
Mercenaries loved to live life, a by-product of knowing it could be snuffed out at any moment, and this bunch was wild, rowdy, and mean-looking.
“Hail the conquering heroine! You fragged me good; buy you a drink?”
“I kicked your bird’s shiny, metal ass, Bender. How about I buy, since I got the purse? Barkeep, one round for everyone on me.” The victorious group commonly bought at least one round of refreshments for everyone else. It was one of the unspoken bits of protocol that were rigidly followed; the rest of the unwritten rules were more like suggestions.
Although the bill would come to several hundred credits, money means little to those who live on the edge, especially when they have a few million newly earned credits in their account. The temporary drinking establishment was packed with wall-to-wall people, all of them mercenaries and their entourages. Although known for their brutality, they were respectful of one another, each one waiting to receive their free drink and holding it until all had been served. All eyes faced Charlie as she raised her glass in a toast. Her preferred drink, the ultra-potent Mind Fuck, glowed and bubbled in its glass, wispy steam rising from the rim.
