Disclaimer: The BMFM are property of what ever company founded them, Centerline in property of JWC, Chase and Streak are property of Tek. No Copyright infringement was intended.
Note to JWC and KLH: I loved both of your stories that they inspired
me, and I had to write one of my own, I'm sorry if I used your basic plot.
Mars, Ravine Mons
The bike didn't feel safe. It couldn't feel safe with out it's Rider, but then it was a fact of life that a Martian bike couldn't feel safe with out it's Rider or vice-versa. The AI had considered going back, but it had been ordered, it couldn't go back, so it continued on through the rough terrain. Slowly but surely it moved onwards. It was gashed and battle scared, the beat up headlight still bore the mouse head freedom fighter logo, and under all the grit and dirt one could see a white stripe in a black background painted over the gas cap and seat. Over the horizon it saw it's destination. The low dark structure sat squatly in the red light, it's rusty red walls blending in nicely with the crimson sands of Mars. The bike continued on towards it, running only on fumes now, the engine was coughing badly, but it continued towards the building.
Stoker rubbed his back, he knew he was getting to old for this kind of
thing, his back seemed to complain about things more and more. He rolled
over in the sand to check the time, his bike's engine revved appreciatively
at the attention. Two more hours, damn! How the hell had Carbine talked
him into this? He turned back to the look out post very conscience of a
rock sticking into his stomach, he shoved the offending rock away. Beside
him he could hear Centerline's heavy breathing, the big white mouse was
just as stiff as he was, and wasn't making any secret of it. What a way
to go! They weren't going to be killed by Plutarkians, but by boredom. Stoker
lay back on the sand and sighed. A small wind wipped his hair about, Centerline
dozed off and started off a half snore, Stoker nudged him.
"Wha?" Centerline blinked owlishly at Stoker. This stake out was going from bad to worse. Stoker did a quick calculation and then discovered that this was the fifth worst day of his life. He sighed again and Centerline started to node off again, Stoker let him. Maybe if Carbine hadn't been so eager to win the war, he wouldn't be stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, on his tail with nothing to do, but look at the red plains of Olympia. Man, he was beginning to hate the Army. They hadn't even had a decent sandstorm to arouse his interest in anything. He concluded that a stake out at Olympia Mons was the most boring thing on the face of Mars. Terrans give things odd names. He thought about asking Centerline why they called it Olympia, but he was already fast asleep so Stoker left the matter. Stoker watched as the wind picked up a little, sending little dust spirals whirling and gyrating around the plain. "Come on, I think we may have a storm starting" he shoved Centerline in the shoulder, "wake up, you slept enough for an entire platoon."
Centerline sat up and shook sand out of his fur and hair, he gave Stoker a look that told him that he had just disturbed a good dream.
"Streak" He muttered before he was fully awake "Why did ya do that for?" He asked looked embarrassed and shook a little more sand from his stripy hair.
"Streak?" Stoker looked inquisitively at Centerline
"And this from a guy who says he can go weeks without sleeping?" Stoker laughed, but didn't answer the question, or forget the name. He motioned for the rest of the team to move under the cover of a nearby outcrop of rocks.
"All the traveling from Earth to Mars is tiring me out" Centerline replied to his second question and yawned. More sand blew by, the mice unlucky enough to be on the stake out rushed for the small cover of the rock. As the last mouse came under the shelter, the sandstorm started to blast at the desert. The small cyclones had turned into huge raging tornadoes and the red grit wipped painfully into anyone's fur that happened to be out in the storm. But the rocky overhang wasn't very good protection. Several of the officers got sand burn, including Stoker. He definitely was getting to old for this, five years ago he wouldn't have even worried about it.
"Stoker, we're picking up a storm in your area, are you all right?" Carbine's voice crackled over the COM.
"Oh yeah, we're fine! Just a little sandstorm, nothing we can't handle" Stoker said sarcastically to himself and fought to get a handle on something, he found Centerline's tail. The big white mouse had anchored himself to his bike which in turn was anchored to the rock. And I was the one who wanted a sandstorm to bring up a little action. Stoker grasped his COM from his belt and struggled to turn it on. The fast moving sand burned his arms even more. "Damn!" He swore through his teeth. More sand blew by in a threatening looking blast. Centerline's bike was starting to lose it's hold.
"Stoker!?" Carbine's voice came through again, this time she sounded worried, but still slightly annoyed at the same time. Only Carbine could achieve that. The wind ripped the COM from Stoker's grasp and it crashed into a nearby dune, never to be seen again. More sand wipped by, Centerline's bike suddenly lost it's hold on the rock sending both it's owner and Stoker flying into the storm and then as suddenly as it had started the sandstorm stopped. The final blast of wind cracked Stoker's head on the rocks, he was out for the count. Blood ran from a cut on the back of his skull, staining the sand with his green blood. Centerline didn't fare much better, when his bike let go of the rock it hurtled into his stomach knocking the wind out of him, and when the wind had subsided the bike landed on him, it's main power damaged. Centerline struggled to get it off, but to no avail, he went under as something cracked him on the back of his neck.
If Mars was Earth during World War II, Camp 27 would have been Auswitze
or Flossenberg. But Mars was not Earth and Riche was not Hitler. Even though
he toiled the prisoners's just as hard, he toiled them with no regard to
age or anything, if you were old enough to walk, you worked in Riche's camp.
The hot sun beat down on Streak's black fur, she was a big mouse, almost
seven feet tall, with a powerful, but lean build. Her sleek all black fur
was marked only by a white band running down her hair. She wiped sweat off
her brow with her hand, the sun gleamed off the silver arm band around her
wrist. Her odd mis-matched eyes darted to the guards that hung out in the
shade, her eyes would have caught your attention if you had seen them, one
was a normal pink for a Martian, but the other was a deep calm sea blue.
As the sun beat down more heavily it shined on the dog tags around her neck,
they read: Privet Conner Allison, United States Army! She saw the tags were
out and quickly tucked them back in her shirt. A small young, maybe 16 or
so, mouse worked next to her, striking feebly out of exhaustion at a rock,
he gasped as a sharp pebble hit him in his cheek drawing blood.
"You ok kid?" Streak asked laying her pick on the ground.
She had been in the camp with the young mouse called Chase for more than two years now, since the beginning of the Take Over.
"Yeah, I'm fine" Chase replied and stopped digging for a second to rub the cut. "Don't call me kid!" Chase looked up at Streak, who chuckled.
"I'll call you kid as long as your old man's not around to" Streak picked up the digging implement and started to chop at the rocks again. At the mention of his farther Chase looked wistful.
"My dad and your brother will get us out of here!" Chase said confidently he picked up his shovel, cut forgotten.
"Yeah, Stoker and Centerline will come for us" Streak took a small pleasure in the thought.
Suddenly commotion erupted over by the gate, half of the prisoners dropped their equipment. The other half didn't bother and carried it over to the fight with them. It was between two mice once pure white and huge, the other smaller and brown and the guards. Streak pushed her way through the crowd of POW's to see it.