Evening all

This second scribble to go after the first scribble (https://www.reddit.com/r/Sexyspacebabes/comments/u1pys0/a_million_to_one/)

I do apologise for the delay but motivation has been lacking at my end, coupled with me being a bear of very little creative brain.

Either way I hope you enjoy this little tale, and of course, full credit and admiration to Blue and all the other fan authors on this page, its always a delight to read your work.

​

In the cold void of space, the Home System Fleet completed its final manoeuvres, arrayed to the side of the earth in relation to the incoming enemy fleet, refusing to have Earth to their backs, firstly to prevent stray shots from impacting on the planet's surface. Secondly to allow the numerous defences of the Commonwealth a clear shot once the alien fleet came within range and Earth’s own rotation allowed.

Admiral Nahjeet Nijjar stood in the armoured command centre, hidden deep within the Thunderchild’s hull, his hands clasped behind his back in what he hoped looked like a stoic fashion. Around him, his command team ebbed and flowed, the picture of an oiled machine as slowly but surely a picture of this new threat to humanity began to take shape. No first contact package had been received from the purple fleet still roaring towards earth, even as its flanks were harassed by frigates, corvettes and the automated remnants of the Drake fleet. However, just because these invaders had not given information willingly didn’t mean it wasn’t available, a fact that was being exploited by the vessels’ cyberwarfare suits, with varying degrees of success.

Feeling someone striding up behind him, the admiral cocked an eyebrow, turning to face his head of intelligence, Commodore Catherine Jones.

“Anything useful?”

“Not useful enough sir,” came the blunt response, “I recommend a boarding action, manually hack into their fleet network, it likely won’t affect their offensive capabilities but it will give us the intelligence we need!”

“Bit far away for a boarding action Commodore” the admiral noted dryly.

“The destroyer HMAV Darling is carrying two sections of the Special Space Service, both of them with armoured support”

“Location?”

“Heading out with the 3rd Flotilla to launch long-range torpedoes and activate the 73rd through 83rd Minefields”

The admiral didn’t insult his commodore’s intelligence by pointing out the suicidal nature of such a suggestion. Considering the last alien species to approach earth had wanted to consume the human race, and these new arrivals weren’t exactly arriving with a cake and flowers, he was hardly going to quibble about sending forces to do what they’d trained for.

“Permission granted Commodore, standard rules of engagement”

The woman nodded, her mouth set in a grim smile as she turned away, her hand already reaching to her ear to activate her communicator and give the orders.

Aboard the HMAV Darling, the low red lighting permeating the vessel’s corridors bathed the two sections of SSS commandos receiving their orders in an almost nether worldly glow. Already bombed up, they immediately began making their way towards the destroyer’s ventral coil gun loading centre, affectionally known as “The Breach”. There, they were met by the gunnery crews and their “armoured support”.

With each SSS section consisting of six men, it had been decided during the closing stages of the Martian War that these light teams required some heavier support that could still keep up with them. To this end, experiments had begun on the concept of PCA or Powered Combat Armour. While the war ended before anything had come of the experiments, testing had resumed following the rebuilding of Britain.

Finally, in the early 2000s, a prototype had been developed.

The initial suits, designed exclusively with space-faring combat in mind, had been bulky and far too slow to be of use, let alone being too large to fit through the tight corridors common on most space vessels.

Constant testing and development over the last decade however had yielded improvements which while still far from perfect, still provided heavy protection, the ability for heavier support weapons to accompany boarding actions and increased speed. For a mission involving unknown alien vessels, however, the suits had been issued with plasma cutters. If heatrays struggled with bulkheads made of alien metals, then Plasma should hopefully be more effective, plus superheated plasma made a perfectly acceptable anti-personnel weapon.

“Section fourteen! Stand by one!”

“Section twenty-five! Stand by one!”

The purpose-built boarding pods were raised from the magazine within the depths of the vessel. Based on the same principle as the cylinders the Martians had used on their initial invasion of Earth and lacking any of the guidance software of traditional torpedoes, these pods were designed to be launched from the main armament of destroyers or cruisers, launched via rail or coil guns along the length of the ship, across the void of space with only limited ability to adjust course. To this end, the pods were designed to collide with enemy vessels, preferably through weak points in the hull, be it windows, launching bays or other openings. Upon penetration of the boarded vessel, the pod would release a dense cloud of repurposed “Black Dust” a thick cloying cloud which doubled as a smokescreen as well as a lethal agent to most species including Martians not protected by contained breathing apparatus or purpose-built gasmasks.

Once the sections had boarded their pods, the pods were loaded into the breach of the launcher as the destroyer increased speed, lining herself up to swing just within range of the forward enemy vessels in order to fire her payload and be hopefully out of range before any return fire could land.

Trooper Christopher Close squeezed his eyes shut as the familiar sensation of g-forces pressed him back in his harness, his pod flung across the stretch of space between the rapidly retreating “Darling” and the incoming fleet. While he was proud to be a member of the SSS commandos, there was no denying his nerves. Earth hadn’t faced an external threat in over half a century and this latest arrival clearly had something going for them given their firepower.

He didn’t have too long to dwell on his thoughts however as the pilot guiding the pod switched on their comms, “Tighten your sphincters ladies and gents! The captain will be bringing us in shortly! And thanks again for flying “Fuck You Airlines”!”

Seconds later the pod slammed harshly into something hard and definitely not something designed to tolerate a boarding pod.

The harness around his hard-suit automatically disengaged, dropping him about half a meter to the ground as the dull hissing of the black dust sounded from outside the pod.

Turning to look at the rest of his section, Christopher was greeted with the insane wide-eyed grin of Corky the section's pet “Doorknocker”, his face barely visible behind the armour plate covering his blue facial visor.

“Alright Crispy?” he grinned, “Lets wriggle on!”

Just as he spoke, the end of the pod blew out, launching the nose of the pod deeper into the ship.

Letting his training take over, “Crispy” surged out of the cylindrical pod, his heatray poised as he swept to the left of the pod.

The area in which he found himself appeared to have once been a control room of some description. Not quite large enough to be the bridge of a large ship, but maybe… his suspicions were confirmed as he peered around the corner of the pod, spying the obvious launch bay below him.

Suddenly a piercing alarm blared through the air, the section already having cleared the room, finding only a handful of aliens, all very much deceased, mostly due to the vacuum of space, though it seemed at least one had managed to get a mask on, only to succumb to the black dust.

What was curious about these aliens though, was their remarkable resemblance to the human race. If one ignored the size, the tusks, the black and gold eyes and the purple skin. Not only that, but unless they were a genderless race, every single one in the room was most definitely female.

“Humph” muttered someone over the comms, “No wonder they’re being so demanding! That’s all we need! An army of purple mothers-in-law!”

An adrenaline-fueled chuckle rippled through the section before the captain called order.

“Alright gents, we’ve not reached the bridge yet, you can rub one out when you get there! In the meantime, Corky! Open this hatch here, I need to stretch my legs!”

Within minutes a hole was carved through the solid door at the far end of the room, Corky’s plasma cutter working exactly as advertised, the section piling through the gap and making their way swiftly down the corridor, trailed by the pods pilot, who while not carrying any heavy weaponry, doubled as a spare medical orderly once the pod had landed.

The thudding steps of the PCA suit were the only sound above the piercing shriek of the alarm before a door at the end of the corridor hissed open, a trio of the recently christened MiL (Mothers in Law) piled through, only to draw to halt as they spied the section of commandos making their way straight towards them.

One of them let loose a strange guttural string of words that sounded like the back-alley bastard child of a drunk Russian and the methed up German in the midst of a mental breakdown.

The words didn’t last long however as the brilliant green lances from the heatrays of the commandos in front scythed her and the woman behind her down, cooking them within their armour until nothing but charred bones and flesh were left within a fraction of a second. The final MiL stumbled backwards, tripping over the raised base of the doorway and sprawling back into the corridor she'd been attempting to leave.

The captain was on her in a second, his Fairburn and Sykes blade drawing blood as it was held against her throat.

While Chris couldn’t make out much of the conversation, too focused on moving past the captain and clearing the rest of the corridor, he was able to make out the woman sobbing something before her voice was cut off in an abrupt gurgling gasp.

“Next corridor on the right!” came the captain’s voice from behind him. “There’s a stairwell to the main bridge from there!”

“F-fuck… I’m losing power!” came the raspy voice of the PCA’s operator, the armoured suit slapping at its auxiliary power pack on its lower back.

“Fucking typical!” drawled the captain. “It’s worse than dragging a pensioner around! You can either stay down here and fuck shit up, or you can finally admit the damn thing won't work and come with us!”

“They said the tank wouldn’t work and look where that got them!?”

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t work! I said it’s not working now!” came the blunt retort as the section thundered towards the doorway the captain had indicated, the shrill blaring of the alarm suddenly shifting from its high-pitched screech to low steady wail.

“Welp! Sounds like they’ve realized we’re here!” someone muttered.

“No… *huff* shit sherlock!” grunted someone from the back of the troop, most likely the pod pilot. “You work that out yourself?”

“Shuddup and get up those apples!” snapped the response.

“You fucking what?!”

“Hackney!” snapped the captain as his team began leaping up the stairs that were just a little too big to be comfortable. “What did I tell you about rhyming slang!”

“F-fuck… only t-ta use if on the *huff* ruperts and crabs!”

“Exactly!”

Back on the Thunderchild, Admiral Nijjar arched an eyebrow curiously at his intelligence liaison as she strode towards him.

“Section 25 has lost radio contact sir, section fourteen is barely coming through but seems to be making progress towards the bridge on one of their cruisers.”

The admiral hummed into his beard, “Their fleet will be in range in ten minutes, have they found anything so far?”

“Not that we’ve been able to ascertain sir.”

“Fuck, very well, keep me informed”

“Aye sir”

Back in the overbearingly purple stairwell leading to the bridge of their potential prize, Chris and the rest of Section 14 found themselves facing the foreboding looking hatchway, clearly having been sealed the moment the MiLs realized they were being boarded.

“Corky! Fetch!” snapped the captain, kicking the door in disgust as the rest of the section backed off, giving the maniacal corky and his temperamental plasma cutter as much space as possible.

“Hmm, that'll take a minute skip!” Corky responded, rapping his knuckles against his intended victim. “She’s a good thick one!”

“Yeah yeah, stop chatting it up and crack it open before it asks to settle down with kids and a dog!” came the growled response.

Seconds later the scent of heated metal tickled Chris’ nose as he turned to aim back down the stairs where the first sounds of battle between the PCA and MiL reinforcements were beginning to emanate.

“Boss, we’ve got about six of the bitches down here! Using some kind of laser weaponry!” came the voice of the PCA’s operator.

“Is it effective?”

“If you weren’t in armour, it’d give you a hggg fuck! A tickle! But it's o-ok down here! Oh, you utter cunt! I cleaned that yesterday!”

“Crispy! Toffee! Guard the rear and you… Driver, I never learned your name!” the captain gestured at the pilot who shrugged aiming his heatray down the stairs.

“It Geoff”

“Eh, prefer Driver, cover the rear until the doors open then follow up!”

The sound of battle was suddenly joined by shouts and gunfire from the bridge doorway, Corky letting out a yelp as he hurled himself behind the doorframe, “Fuck! They’re pissed boss!”

“Well so are we!” snarled the captain, tossing a black dust grenade through the gap in the doorway, the shouts inside growing panicked, at least a dozen voices yelling out before beginning to cough and choke off one by one.

Chris however had his eyes glued on the unfolding scene at the bottom of the stairs as the PCA staggered into view, turning to face its attackers before venting a cloud of smoke. As he watched, he could just make out the figure of the operator scrambling out the back, stumbling up the stairs towards them, pistol in hand.

“Fucking bitches were right on top of me!” he gasped as he dropped to his knees beside the newly christened “Driver”

“One even tried to get the helmet off!”

“Heh, closest you’ll ever get to snog” someone muttered over the comms

“Fuck off! I had to punch her in the tit! They don’t train you for that! My mum will kill me!”

“They do train you for that you sexist dick! This is why you never get a girlfriend!”

“Is it? I thought it was cause he needed a codpiece to be visible!”

A series of raucous cackles rippled through the tense group of soldiers, broken once again by the grim voice of the captain.

“Alright Crispy, fall back, the bridge is clear. Get Toffee up here and see if she can make any sense of these screens before I start trying percussive maintenance!”

Beside him, Chris could feel Stephanie Wilkson aka “Toffee” stiffen. She’d earned the nickname through her Oxbridge accent and upper-class mannerisms, and while it was a name she wore with pride, the fastest way to get her dander up was to threaten any kind of computer with physical violence.

“I’m coming!” she snapped into her microphone, “Just don’t touch anything! Don’t so much as fucking fart! Just sit in a corner and pick your nose! Who knows you might actually trigger a thought!”

With that she was gone, bounding up the stairs as the first shadowy figures appeared in the smoke below, weapons raised.

Gesturing Driver and the operator to follow Toffee, Chris squeezed himself against the wall, slowly sliding into a half-crouch before lobbing a Driveway grenade down the stairs and vacating after his colleagues as quickly as he could, ignoring the shrieks behind him.

The Driveway grenades, named after the blue cocktails they resembled were designed exclusively for the Special Space Service, particularly in boarding actions. Rather than relying on conventional explosives or black dust or shrapnel, the Driveway’s payload was liquid nitrogen in distinctly blue gel form. Used as a reverse napalm of sorts. Terrifying if used in close confines, Chris had no idea how effective it would be against armed and prepared MiLs, but it was enough to get him into the bridge without being shot so it was worth it.

He found Toffee hunched over a console obviously happily figuring out how the damned thing worked while the rest of the group was occupied with securing the other two exits and moving the bodies of the previous bridge crew from their inconvenient places on the floor.

Chris barely had time to get his breath back before turning his attention back to the stairwell, but he did notice that while most of the dead MiLs were the same purple, big breasted types as the others they’d seen, there were other species in the mix as well, including a pair who looked uncannily like lionesses crossed with werewolves and another that looked like the kind of dark elf his wife’s first son drew crude pictures of for a living. He shuddered at the thought.

​

On the HMAV Thunderchild II the command bridge was growing increasingly tense.

“Admiral! Section Fourteen has let us patch into their fleet communications! The translator will have a full lexicon in three minutes!”

“Are they evacuating?”

“No sir, they claim all exits are blocked”

“Which vessel are they on?”

“Current target designation B73-1”

“Tell gunnery to see if they can disable that one, we’ll need a museum exhibit after this anyway”

“Aye sir”

“Sir! Enemy fleet is not slowing, they are still sending their surrender demands. They will be entering our maximum range in 3…2…1… Entered range!”

“Orders sir?”

“Hold fire, I want them to fire the first shot! So fucking help me I’m not getting dragged out of retirement by some lawyer who’ll brand me a murderer for things that happened before they were even an itch in their daddy’s scrotum!”

A few tense minutes passed, the guns and torpedoes of the fleet locking on to targets as the purple fleet came on.

“Sir! First shot registered!”

“Target?”

“Earth sir!”

“Fuck! Where?!”

“Standby… NORAD United States!”

“Fuck! you had me worried they’d gone for something important!”

The bridge crew let out a short tense laugh at their stations before the Admiral's lips curled in a grin, “They’ve fired on earth territory! The Yanks might not be able to fight back, but we can do them a favour! Fire at will!”

From the bridge of the purple cruiser, the view was truly beautiful, the steadily growing blue and white ball of earth hanging dead centre, the vague grey specks of the home system fleet barely visible against their black backdrop.

Chris couldn’t help but snap a photo on his heads-up display as he leaned against a console, his right arm burning in pain from a lucky shot. The MiLP (Mother-in-Law-Purple) responsible, or what was left of her, slumped smouldering in the doorway.

Making sure the photo was saved to his online archive, his head began to turn back towards the doorway before he was startled by a flickering from the direction of the fleet.

His eyes widened as his brain finally registered and interrupted what it was seeing, a veritable wall of vibrant green heatrays, the bright flaring light of rockets and arching white of relay cannon projectiles, all thundering towards the fleet, for one fleeting moment seeming like they were all aimed directly at him.

“Fuck me” he breathed out.

“I’ve got a headache” came the dry reply.