This is an open story. If you would like a character, Xeno or not, to make a cameo, just poke me on Discord and I'll leave you an 'in' to hook your post into. This story will be far more dialogue-heavy than typical, with little 'action text' involved.
"That's it, then." Gopher released his tunnel through the comms relay, and swapped over to local wideband. "It's done."
"That quick?" A quiet voice, belonging to a woman barely old enough to remember a decade and a half ago, truly far too young to see what she'd seen. "It didn't even take an hour." The ramshackle Hawk slid up next to the Roc, one of the wings bent at an odd angle, a Scorpion dangling limply from a hardpoint. The only thing stopping it from twirling with every movement of the ship were the bump-stops that kept the weapon in a vague forward position.
"That quick. Didn't have much to say, and Moronetti didn't have much in the way of justification."
A giggle filled his helmet as the woman, no, girl laughed. "That's super rude, Goph'!"
"Yeah, it is, but he ain't wrong." A third voice, with a tenor of ground glass, joined the mutinous chorus. "Should've known what was coming."
"Hey, Beau. Glad you could make it. 'Bout damn near half a squadron here now." Bucking his ship back, Gopher brought both the Hawk and the Startracker into view. It wasn't much, but it was something. Everything has to start somewhere.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, rat." Despite the grating tone, the underpinnings of a grin were plainly obvious.
"Anyone else coming with? One of the Phooms, maybe?" Gopher was hopeful, even just one of the aces could cause problems for an entire wing of Navy strike craft. Wonder-workers, every man jack of them. "Couple of the Orphan Makers?"
"Heard some rumors, but that's about it. Nothing conn-crete." Beau trailed out the word, eliciting an eye-roll from both of the other attendees.
"Guess it's just us, then. You guys know there's no comin' back from this, right? I'm already done, but you two can pretend this never happened." Poking around deep in the annals of Shikoku, the little meeting was entirely unnoticed. Sure, James had made his bed, but he planned to lie in it, even if it became his coffin. His compatriots had the luxury of departing, and not a soul would know.
"Yeah, I'm aware, Goph'." Beau spoke up first, his Startracker pitching idly up and down as the pilot toyed with the stick. "Wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be here. That simple."
"Same. I thought the Xenos were about making life better for people like us. If that's not what's happening, that's not where I want to be."
"Jessie, always the visionary. You could've helped people in a hospital, or as a firefighter. Didn't have to sign up to kill people." Gopher glanced over at the cockpit of the Hawk, smoky anti-glare glass shrouding the almost-malnourished form of the girl seated inside.
"I know, but... Hard to explain. Didn't feel like I was doing enough. Just cleaning up after evil people did their thing."
"True, true. Well, guess this is it." Bringing up a wrist, the chief mutineer spared a glance down at his watch. "Thirty-five past the hour. If anyone's going to show up, they'll be awful late."
As if on cue, a Rhino nearly plowed into the assembled ships, coming to rest with a flourish in the middle of the little, ragtag formation.
"Hot damn, Porkchop! You nearly took off my one good wing!" Jessie cried, maneuvering thrusters working double-time to scoot the light fighter out of the way.
"Sorry, sweetcheeks! Hey, G. Better late than never, right?" The Rhino backed off as well, the triangle of ships now reforming into an awkward square.
"If we're talking about you, big guy, I'm not sure 'never' would be any worse." James' voice took on a stern, serious tone. It was completely contrary to the signal-flag-waving, womanizing, barely-competent, out-the-cockpit-pissing moron from the Bering and Hudson operations. "Kidding. Welcome aboard. Got anything useful in that pile of crap you call a ship?"
"Hey, hey, hey! Don't talk bad about my baby like that!" Porkchop sounded genuinely hurt, if only for a moment. "And, for your information, yes. Couple dozen Nova torpedoes and Screamers, fuel canisters out the ass, food rats, water, air. Everything a growing mutiny needs!"
"You may smell like burnt meat and sweat, but you do always manage to come through, don't you?" The girl interjected, a smile of her own playing at her lips.
"That's my job, babe! Well, not babe, that's a bit weird, but still."
"Don't worry about it. Anyway, I just had a thought."
"Uh oh. That's dangerous."
"Shut up, Beau. What are we going to call ourselves? I mean, if we're cheesing off Cobra, we probably can't still say we're Xenos."
"And I especially can't say I'm part of the Alliance."
"Exactly. We need a name. Something people can remember. Any suggestions?"
The argument lasted longer than the meeting had. A dozen or so names were thrown back and forth, and twice as many insults. Finally, in a moment of silence, one final ship slid into formation. The other vessels shifted and maneuvered to make space for the Eagle. Like Jessie's Hawk, the ship seemed to be damaged, the lowermost fins peeled away either by gunfire or power tools. Rust discolored the typically-beige finish, indicating the unneeded protrusions had gone without repair for many years.
"What about the Groundhogs?"
"Ash!" Jessie spoke up immediately, recognizing the alternating red and yellow stripes adorning the dorsal fin of the Eagle.
"Hey, girl. These guys treating you right?"
"Mhmm! Porkchop's being Porkchop, but other than that, we're one-hundred-percent!"
"Guilty as charged!" The heavyset freighter pilot responded, suppressing a belly-laugh.
"Groundhogs, huh? Hell of a lot better than what we've come up with so far." James was right. Every other title had gone way too far into attempted-badass territory. It was embarrassing. "I'm in on that. Any objections?"
"Nope."
"Nuh uh."
"Good with me!"
"I suggested it, of course I'm going to vote for it."
"It's settled, then. When we get to the Freeport, we'll score some paint and get rid of the snakes." The Roc angled deeper into Shikoku, away from Kepler, and towards Noshima. "Last chance to change your mind." The silence was broken by the sound of charging cruise engines, catapulting the bomber towards the Freelancer installation. The damaged Eagle fell in behind, followed by the Rhino and Startracker, leaving the Hawk alone in space for just a moment. With a final flop of the poorly-attached Scorpion, it, too, joined the formation, as the ragtag squadron headed off for parts unknown.
Those 'parts unknown' ended up being very well-known.
"Not interested in hosting your kind here, Xeno." The dockmaster aboard Noshima had a particularly harsh voice, though not quite as harsh as the sound of pulse turrets charging in the background. "Credits or not, you're not setting a foot on my pads."
"I told you we should've tried Ames, Goph'." Beau swapped over to wing-comms, rather than local broadcast, transmitting solely to the misfit squadron.
"And I told you that Ames is going to be an absolute cluster for the next few weeks. Wouldn't shock me one bit if Cobra was there right now. You want to run across him after what I said?"
"I don't know about Beau, but I'd rather not see the man for a few days. I like having a face."
"You're about the only person in Sirius that appreciates your face, Porky. Moretti might be doing the rest of us a favor."
"Ash! Come on, not even a day out of Nome, and we're already starting with the infighting. Not a good look."
"Jessie's got the right idea. Cool it." Gopher popped back over to the now-raging dockmaster, the sound of irate yelling echoing in his head.
"Hey! Are you morons even paying attention? I'm telling you to piss off, before I scramble the defense fighters!"
"Yeah, we heard you the first half-dozen times! Jesus, just give us a minute to figu-..." James was cut short, a pulse projectile smashing against the shields of his Roc. They buckled almost immediately. Yanking the yoke back and punching the throttle, the bomber was sent in a great spiral away from the station, the remainder of his vaunted 'boys and girls' falling in behind. "Dick!"
"You asked for it, punk!"
"He's right, you did sorta' ask for it."
"I know I asked for it, Jessie, I just didn't think he'd start shooting!"
"That's because you don't tend towards thinking at all, Goph'."
"Shut up, Beau. And, Jessie, before you start, don't say 'he's right, you know'."
The motley crew placed a few dozen k's of distance between themselves and the now-hostile Freeport, before coming to rest at the edge of the Keiun cloud.
Right back where they started.
"Right, well, that went about as well as I expected. If I may offer a second suggestion: why don't we just try Milford? To be honest, it's pretty much the middle of nowhere, and everyone I've ever met that's been stationed onboard has been pretty relaxed. We could just walk in, pretend you're not running traitor, and waltz right out with a few rattlecans. Maybe even catch a hot meal and a friend or two in the process."
"That's... Not the worst idea I've ever heard, Ash. If Moretti is still going through with this, he probably figures we're not the only people thinking about mutiny. Doubt he'd want to spur people into jumping ship by mentioning me going AWOL all willy-nilly to everyone. All in favor of a trip to Pennsy?"
A chorus of half-hearted affirmatives echoed back, tempered by their first failure, and the prospect of eating Porkchop's "cooking" for the next day or so.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" Gopher hissed, spurring the Roc to even greater speeds. On his scopes, the pings of Xeno vessels, presumably out of Ouray, loomed closer.
"Chill out, Goph'! I've got this!"
"Got this? Got this? Pork, these aren't just some rooks taking their Hawks for a spin-... No offense, Jess."
"None taken, bossman."
"Check their IFFs. Those ships belong to the Fangs. You know, actual, competent people."
"Competent people still gotta' eat, Jim. Watch and learn." The color drained from Gopher's face as a communications channel was opened from the Rhino to the patrol, the clumsy freighter cutting its engines from cruise velocity to a plodding impulse pace. Porkchop kept the wing-comms activated, allowing the now-slowing quartet of vessels to hear his conversation.
"This is Raging Fangs patrol Black-12 to unidentified convoy. Make yourselves known." The patrol flight lead finally spoke up, a husky voice marred slightly by static.
"Uhh, Black-12, this is callsign 'Porkchop'. That you... Dave?"
"Dave? Dave? Who the everloving hell is 'Dave'?"
"Shut up, Goph'!" Keying the mic once more, Pork returned to his little routine.
"How do you kn-."
"Come on, man, you think I'd forget my buddy Dave? You saved my ass a few months back. Bunch of Navy had me dead to rights near the Nyork hole. Swooped in an clubbed 'em, you did. Wouldn't believe how grateful the boys on Pittsburgh were to get that load of lux' food."
"He's making this up on the spot, isn't he?" Ash's voice dripped with incredulity as she pulled her Eagle dangerously close to the Roc, helping to conceal the hastily-stenciled "XA GOPHER" plastered on the port side. "Please, God, tell me he's not."
"I think he is."
"Let's hope he's a better liar than he is a cook, J'."
"I-... Black-12 to 'Porkchop', yeah, that rings a little bit of a bell." The voice on the line dropped to a whisper, just barely audible. "Anyone know this guy? I don't want to be a dick, but he evidently knows me, and I can't remember him to save my life."
"Yeah, chief, he's one of our suppliers. Usually runs from up north down to Hudson and back. Brought the fixins for pie by Ouray just the other day."
"Holy hell, is this garbage actually working?" Beau muttered, closing the formation up around Gopher, every vessel other than the Rhino attempting to appear as inconspicuous as possible, and appearing all the more conspicuous for it.
"Good stuff. Heard Bull was a fan." Dave returned to his usual volume, addressing the convoy once more. "Yeah, uhh, 'Porkchop', Black-12. Awful heavy escort for one Rhino. What's your destination, over?"
"Milford, chief. Got a wave that the boys were running low on munitions. Just a quick load from Ames, then down to Barrow. Someone popped a Daumann five-kay full of hull panels, figured I'd help run them over to Ramsey."
"Right. Guess that escort makes sense. Pretty tight formation you guys are rocking, though. Keep it icy and carry on, can't afford to start replacing parts because y'all are playing stunt-crew. Black-12, out." And, with that, the patrol winged away. For the first time in what felt like hours, Gopher gulped down a breath.
"Listen up, ladies and germs. Here's the play." Again, the gaggle of ships had formed a school-circle in space, this time just off the solar plane of Pennsylvania, concealed within the Meadville field. Tiny chunks of helium-laden ice pinged off of unshielded hulls, the reduced energy signature helping the crew to avoid detection. "Ash, Pork, you're running in first. Freighter and his escort, standard stuff."
"Uh huh."
"Right on."
"I'll run through next, about a half-hour later. Just a pilot coming back from patrol. Pork, I'm gonna' jettison a few mines and Novas, you tractor them up. Make it look like I've done a little bit of work while I was gone." Echoes of clacking switches bounced through the comms channels, a half-dozen or so Seeker mines and torpedoes falling from the racks of the Roc, only to be unceremoniously snatched up by the tractor beam of the waiting Rhino.
"Got 'em, G'."
"Good. Beau, Jess, you're coming in last. Rookie and her mentor. Nurse it home."
"Awh, I have to play the rookie?"
"Judging by that wing, girl, you sure as hell fly like one!"
"Don't pick on the kid, Beau. She's trying her best."
"I know, big sister, I know. Just teasing. Speaking of, Jess, when we get stopped off, you need to tell me how the hell that happened."
"Will do, Beau. Gotta' get to Milford first, though."
"Shouldn't be too difficult for you four. Me, on the other hand..." Gopher bit his lip apprehensively, glancing around at the assembled vessels. "Jess, if things go south, you and Beau take off back to Ouray. Pretend like nothing happened. I'll keep a channel open. Two pips when I'm landing, and you're clear. Three pips, at any point, and you piss off somewhere else, it's over. Ash, Pork, if anything goes wrong, you don't know me, you don't know about me. Clear?"
"Crystal."
"Roger."
"You got it, chief."
"You're not my big brother, Goph'. I can take care of myself."
"I know you can, Jess. Won't stop me from worrying a little bit." In truth, Gopher would sooner have met Cobra alone in a dark corridor on Ames than bring Jessie along on this excursion. The girl was far too young to be a Xeno, much less a traitorous one. The prospects weren't good for any of them. "If and when we all get aboard, you've got a little less than a day. RV point is Bethlehem, eleven-hundred hours, on the twenty-first. Load up on anything and everything you think we might need. We've still got most of the bare necessities aboard Pork's Rhino, but it might be a while until we can resupply. Ammunition, hull patches, the works."
"Gotcha'. I'll snag a few maintenance guys, see if we can't get that Hawk back in shape. Won't be straight, but it'll look better than before."
"Good thinking, Beau. Alright, Pork, Ash, off you go. Best of luck."
"See you on the other side, Goph'."
"Here's hoping, Ashley."
The minutes passed with idle chatter between the three remaining ships. All smalltalk, really, though Beau did let slip that it was his daughter that had passed away from withdrawals, rather than his sister, as Gopher always thought. After that little revelation, the channel went solemnly quiet. The ringleader spared a glance down at his chrono once more, as the minute hand swept past ten-thirty.
"That's my cue. Leave the channel open, but make sure it stays silent. Don't want the commo' officer on Milford to trace the beam back. Jess, remember the plan?"
"Yeah. Two clicks, we're clear, three, and you're fucked. Wish you'd stop treating me like a kid, Goph'."
"Well, when you get all grown up, I'll be sure to stop. Later, you two."
"Hey, wait!" Jess spoke up, spurring her ship forward to catch up with the Roc. Bringing the two vessels nose-to-nose, Jessie slid sideways, just so, and released a single shot from one of her Scorpions. The beam passed harmlessly along the side of the bomber, though even a near miss was enough to sizzle and sear the paint, leaving only the letters "GOPHER" intact. "Alright, now go."
"Could've told me that was the plan, Jess. I about pissed myself."
"Would've been funny."
"Heh, yeah. Alright, I'm gone."
A few minutes later, and the Roc swept out of the field of tumbling ice asteroids and into a man-made exclusion zone. At the center loomed Milford Base, carved out of a particularly sizable asteroid. It rolled and spun slowly, not near enough rotation to impede landing operations, but enough to help disguise the base from casual observations. Summoning his best not-Gopher voice, James rang up the tower, and began a typical landing sequence.
"Uhh, Milford control, this is callsign Go-... Er, 'Glacier'. Got a spare bay?"
"Yeah, one or two dozen." That was... Not the response Gopher expected. No questioning flight plans? No curiosity about the fake callsign? Must be a slow week.
"Mind if I borrow one for a day or so? I could really use a drink and a shower."
"Gopher it."
James froze in his tracks, and his blood ran ice-cold. They knew. Cobra really had spread the word. Maybe not to everyone, but to the people who mattered. He was an utter moron to think that the man wouldn't enforce at least some level of security and scrutiny, even here. In his panic, the pilot failed to respond, simply drifting towards the colossal chunk of ice-come-station.
"'Glacier', what the hell are you doing? I said go for it. Bay door three."
"Oh, right! Thanks, Milford control, sorry, comms interference. I'll get out of your airspace in a quick."
"Please, do. You're clogging it up."
Depressing a button labelled END CALL with shaking fingers, Gopher let out a pained breath. "Too close. Too goddamned close." With the barest of throttle inputs, the vessel nosed-in and slid towards the yawning maw of the docking port, the interior of the airlock coming into view. Just as the bay doors began to slide closed, Gopher popped the TRANSMIT key twice, sending the signal out of Jessie and Beau. The airlock cycled with an audible hiss, sending a shudder through his bomber, and the inner door gaped open, exposing a massive, messy bay, littered with ships of all sizes. Spying a free space, Gopher settled his ship on spindly landing legs, and powered down the engines.
"Alright, easy, Goph'. You're still a Xeno, you know how stuff works. Just grab a drink, maybe talk with one or two people, then bail." Wringing his hands of nervous energy, the pilot unclasped his trademark helmet, revealing a messy shock of blonde hair, and stowed it on a hook just below his instrument panel. "Ah, ah. Don't want people seeing that." Yanking the helmet free, it was then stuffed unceremoniously below his seat. "Better." With a clunk and a pop, the cockpit glass slid up and forward, allowing the pilot to extricate himself from the bomber. A man in a dingy set of coveralls trudged over, barely making eye contact.
"Most of my crew is busy with some busted-ass Hawk." The deckboss muttered, glaring at the scoring along the side of the vessel. "Fuel only. No paint."
"Works for me, uhh..."
"Dave."
"Yeah, just fuel's fine, no worries."
Dave let out a noncommittal grunt, and waved over a pair of young technicians. Taking his leave of the situation, Gopher strolled towards the bay exit, helpfully emblazoned with a bright-red sign reading 'LEAVE THE BAY THRU THIS DOOR, OTHER GOES TO SPACE'. Moretti may have gotten rid of the yee-hawing, whooping-and-hollering rednecks, but some things never changed.
A quick left, a right, a flip around after realizing he'd traveled in completely the wrong direction, and Gopher found himself standing outside a dimly lit bar-slash-restaurant, one he recognized from his few visits to Milford. 'Bob's', if the sign could be believed, owned and operated by a man named Bill. Masking his face with a cough, James placed a quick order for 'ale and nuts', and meandered over to a secluded table in one corner of the room.
"Figured you meant peanuts. No Rocky Mountain oysters here." A well-built waitress deposited a healthy-sized glass of amber liquid in front of the traitor, as well as a tray of peanuts, in the shell. "Pay your tab when you're done."
"Yes ma'am."
"Don't 'ma'am' me, I'm not that old."
"Right, eh, sorry."
And, with that, Gopher was left to enjoy his beer.