(Hardy's Notes: Welp, here I am again. The following is really just a 'stretching' of the muscles if you will. If I get a good response, I may write a bite more for it, but for the moment I'm just working out some cramps before I got back to tackling heavy, community related stuff. Enjoy!)
"Oh bloody hell."
The words slipped past my lips almost immediately before the force slammed into my chest, sending my altogether minimal frame sailing up and away at a velocity where there is no room to think positively about your chances of a non-violent meeting with a solid object.
Luckily, here at least, that wasn't quite the problem you might think.
I coughed a few times to make sure he hadn't cracked one of my ribs and caught my breath. By sheer force of will, I slowed myself down and reoriented on my foe. My enemy was already coiling together, building the energy necessary to chase me and administer more of what was colloquially known as 'the smackdown.' Needless to say it was in my better interests to put a stop to that nonsense.
My feet met nothing as they pounded away, but I ran sideways, giving pause to my enemy as he tried to adjust his aim. Manuvering in 4-dimensional space is tricky when you're new to it. Fortunately, I have some experience.
I was 'running' perpendicular to what his personal position with relation to what could only loosely be called ground would concievably be. Obviously, this guy had never dealt with such a thing before, which was sort of the thing I'd been counting on. He'd gotten lucky in the first few moments, but now we had an understanding. The Other Side is MY turf, dammit. Stop screwing around and let me kill you.
Okay, maybe he didn't understand that well. He sprang forward, way off course because of his mind's relative reliance on gravity as a factor in any kind of motion, and I actually let myself laugh as I vectored myself onto a collision course. Poor bastard never saw it coming when I punch him in the side of the head, my somewhat boney and pronounced knuckles giving his temple a fairly severe prod.
His eyes closed despite his brain's sluggish protests, and unconsciousness was probably immediate. Still, better safe than sorry. I smacked him hard across the jaw with my other fist and then, because I'm kind of a cheater (and also because punching people in the head HURTS, dammit), I buried my fist in his throat. He wheezed, his various lower brain functions struggling to make sure his blood kept flowing.
Satisfied with my handiwork, I got a firm grip on the back of his shirt, took a deep breath, and stepped Over.
What had been a world of deep black interrupted by chalk-like lines of semi-reality became the flesh-and-blood, colorful world I like to sleep in every 18 hours or so. Robbed of the 4-dimensional lack of gravity, my sleeping friend fell to the ground with a heavy thump, my hand letting go of him automatically to insure my arm didn't magically leave its socket.
"Hey, what'd I miss?" I asked, grinning.
The room was littered with guys like the one I'd just taken down. The only people still standing were my crew, most of them in the same condition I'd left them in.
Mate gave me her usual sardonic grin, her slender hand resting on her equally slender hip. "Well, Captain, you missed the Gunney's Chainsaw show."
"Sorry!" a stocky blonde man said in mock apology. "I wanted to wait, Cap, I really did, but this guy was waving a gun in my face."
"Anyone escape?" I asked, picking my way over the bodies towards Mate. "I'd hate to get screwed out of the contract because someone got away."
"No one made it outta th' room, Cap," Cook affirmed, poking his head in the door.
"Fantastic!" I smiled. "Things are finally looking up for us. Where's Doc?"
Mate nodded over to the hunched figure in the corner that I'd missed when I first got back. "Pulling teeth, as per orders."
"Excellent," I nodded. We needed one tooth from every gang member. The Federation tended not to pay without good, solid DNA evidence. "Gunney, grab some pliers and help Doc out. It's not really precision work."
"Yes Captain," Gunney nodded. He hefted his chainsaw, which looked more like a sword with teeth when it wasn't actively rending someone's flesh from their bones and spewing smoke, onto his shoulder and snapped a few straps into place so it could hang freely off his back like a katana in a scabbard.
Mate gave the guy I'd knocked out a steely nod. "Captain..."
"I know, Mate. Give me your gun, kay?" She handed it over without hesistation and I picked my way over the bodies back toward the friend I'd taken the field trip with. He was starting to stir.
I grabbed a good amount of his hair and hoisted his head off the ground. His eyes were already opening, but his body wasn't responding to well. He gasped down some air and tried to look at me, fear etched on his features.
"Who... the hell are... you people?" he managed between ragged gasps.
I flashed a grin and shrugged, shaving Mate's pistol against the side of his head, pointing it away from me. "Statistically speaking, the most common words spoken by people immediately preceeding their death are 'oh' and 'shit.'" I pulled the trigger, the weapon barking the report of one bullet fired, and a fair amount of gory effect out the other side of the man's skull. "I suppose 'who the hell are you people' will have to do though."
I stood up and tossed Mate her sidearm, and made my way to the door. "I'll be back at the Anchor if anyone needs me."
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Out The Other Side
Chapter 1: The Captain
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Contrary to rumors, I am niether a robot or a ninja.
I am, in fact, a Pirate. And I'm a good one, too.
I'm not one of those peg-legged, eye-patched, parrot keeping 'argh' pirates. For one thing, I have a better vocabulary from which to draw my battlecries, and for another, I hate animals. As for the other two qualifications, I'm not stupid enough to let Gunney get that close to me with that chainsaw of his.
I run a tight ship with a modest but talented crew. Don't tell them I said anything, because it'll go straight to their heads, but I have pretty much the best damn crew a Pirate like me could ask for.
My first mate, Mate (pronounced like the actual word, not like some oriental 'Mahte' crap. She may have almond eyes, but she'll kick you in the shins if you say that.), is my espionage expert. Anyone she can't sneak past, she can seduce, and anyone she can't seduce, she kills. Fairly effective, especially when combined with the fairly distracting and alarming strategies of her husband, Gunney.
Gunney is the resident psychotic on my ship, and really the only one allowed to wander about on his own. Part of that is because, well, he's married to Mate and I'm not arguing with her about it, but the other part is that Gunney is only really out of control when he hasn't eaten recently. I keep a strict eye on his blood-sugar levels. Fortunately, my ship also has a good cook.
Which brings us to Cook. Man weilds a mean meat cleaver, and he makes one of the best steaks I've ever had. Not necessarily healthy food, but delicious, and that's really all I ask for. Cook is one of those strong, silent types, and I haven't really been bored enough to try and pry information out of him as to why that might be. I suspect a troubled past, but hey, aren't they all?
Then there's Mast. She's the other Pirate on my crew. Nice girl, don't get me wrong, but not really all... there, if you know what I mean. She's one of those 'head in the clouds' types. I prefer her there, in all honesty, because when she's paying attention we tend to find ourselves doing... well, charity work. The word sickens me, but still, it pays to have two Pirates on staff. She's actually saved my ass a few times.
Doc is the ship's medic. I know, he's got a real inventive name and all, but hell, stick with what works. The guy is a genius, I will say. He once kept Gunney alive for fifteen days straight after the idiot had gotten a hole blown out of his chest with nothing more than string and pain killers. Of course, part of that may be because Gunney isn't smart enough to realize he's dead, but you still have to be impressed. I know I was.
And lastly, there's Rudder. Thank god for him, and I don't say that lightly these days. Rudder is the primary reason my ship can still move, let alone manage the reality-ripping jumps that are oh-so-necessary in my line of work. He also has a tendancy of talking in Calculus without really realizing it. He's pretty useless at everything that isn't engineering on metaphysical and theoretical levels, but I don't pay him for anything beyond that, so I see no problem.
My ship is currently home to another person who is NOT part of my crew. Her name is Stow, and she's twelve. Before you get on my case, it was NOT my choice. As her name might suggest, se's a stow-away. We keep throwing her off the ship every time we jump, and she keeps sneaking back on. I think Mate keeps feeding her and she sleeps in the vent system. I'll have to have a talk with Mate about that next time we stop.
Quick recap, something that may have confused you about my calling myself a Pirate. Well, notice that capital P? It's a title, see? Technically, me and my crew are ALL pirates, but Mast and I are the only ones with the official branding as defined by the Federation these days. We have the ability to step Over to the Other Side. I'm not a spiritual guy by nature, but the Other Side is about as close to what a lot of folks called the Astral Plane back in ancient history.
I'd go into more detail about the Other Side, but I can't explain it. It's just one of those things you have to see for yourself. Maybe when Mast writes her own damn chapter you can look over her shoulder and see what kind of wishy-washy junk SHE says about it. I don't give a damn.
What I CAN say is that Pirates go back a long way. They started showing up really before ancient history became, well, ancient history. I don't know, maybe back they they were priests or shaman or something, but these days, we're a dying breed. Which is a laugh, because being a Pirate isn't really genetic. It's just something you are or aren't. It's like, the difference between being good at math and being totally unable to do your own taxes. See what I mean?
Mast and I keep ourselves pretty much secret from the Federation, which is getting harder and harder these days since they keep trying to root us all out. Doubly so since they're the only people with decently paying jobs for us to take anymore. It's a hard life as a Pirate.
My ship, the Universal, is a Jumper. That is to say, it can move through realities. Well, okay, I guess that'sconfusing, but hey, deal with it. It's not MY job to explain the universe's most basic premises. I usually let Rudder do that. Be warned though, you'll probably need two Master's Degrees to hold a reasonable conversation with him.
Anyway, enough exposition. I'll end my little story here by telling you that next chapter, I swear I'm gonna get back to the important stuff. Namely, delivering a bag full of teeth to some Federation bigwigs. And if you don't think I'm gonna crack at least two or three tooth fairy jokes on the way, you're sadly mistaken.
Wow, Hard, you havent lost youre thouch, and I should know, I read allot, and youre stuff is allways in the top three. I really want to see the next chapter. Also, when are you gona work on youre other storie again? (the one with crayonman, stereoman and the others)
Took me long to reply. ^_^
Anyway, I really like it, Hard. Some bits here and there remind me of Glen Cook's Black Company books (with the nicknames, the "we're the last and best" feeling, the first person narrator...) which is for the best. :)
Will we have more ? ^_'
(You SHALL!)
The Federation rose out of a basic human need for protection from stuff they don't understand. I can garauntee that as soon as the first ship jumped realities, someone started to think about something like the Federation. All in all, it wasn't a bad idea; a coalition of the more giving groups of people found throughout the universe helping to protect and educate the people who weren't quite so lucky. That's an idea even a selfish guy like me can get behind.
But then, the Council of Twelve, the executive section of the Federation's Board of Leaders, took it upon themselves to forcefully uphold peace in the universe. I mean, it wasn't THAT far off what they'd been doing already, but more aggressive security checks, lower standards as to the meaning of the phrase 'acceptable brutality' and a general mindset of 'if you're not with us, you're against us' is pretty much the harbinger of doom for every great civilization. Seriously, look it up in some of those really old history books.
But I digress. I did say I was going to try and move away from the exposition for a bit, so here we go. About three days (as you understand them, anyway. The vast blackness of space cares little for the rising and setting of suns.) after our tussle with the now deceased and toothless gang, we managed to establish contact with one of the Federation flagships, the FCS Mothra. Like all of the ships in it's particular class of mobile city-state, it bore the name of a monster from ancient times. Truth be told, the Mothra wasn't nearly as big as the Federation Captial Ship Gojira, but when you compare it to the Universal, you're still talking an exponential amount of extra room.
The Mothra itself looked much like its legendary namesake. It sported four massive solar panels that immediately brought to mind the massive, screaming death butterflies of HY-112 (which were hilarious memories for all aboard the Universal), with a tremendous dome that ran the length of its 'body', encompassing the city in which all of the military and civillian resources required to operate the ship lived, along with their families. The actual, factual workings of the ship weren't very large in comparison, but not a lot of space is necessary for a ship that barely moves except through massive rips in reality the thing creates for itself.
We pulled up to the underside of the Mothra and I kicked back in my chair while I waited for Rudder and whoever the unfortunate soul who had to deal with him on the other end of the line coordinated the docking procedures. This is one of those things no one on my crew ever chooses to interrupt, mostly because none of us can breath in space.
The loud report of metal on metal brought me out of my chair, and I wandered down the spine of the ship to the airlock. Mate met me there, the bag of teeth in hand, along with Doc. I normally don't take more people onto a Federation ship than is absolutely necessary, but Doc's presence would speed things up a great deal, if only so he could make sure we didn't get screwed out of our cash by Fed Doctors who have no idea how to run DNA checks.
We were welcomed aboard by a tall man in a striking grey uniform. It had a diffrent flavor to it than a lot of other Federation jumpsuits, and it took me a second to figure out why.
"Evening, Admiral," I smiled. Internally, my body did one of those cold wash over 'ah, crap' flushes that happens to everyone once in a while. I don't like dealing with Fed punks as it is. Dealing with Fed Brass is worse. They're smart.
The man's face cracked into a grin that I couldn't be sure was fake. "So you're the pirate captain I've heard so much about. I assume you have proof that you've sucessfully dispatched the Tunith gang?"
I nodded slightly in Mate's direction, and a hollow rattle ensued as she hefted the bag for him to see. "I have so much proof that you're going to need another pillow to put it all under tonight." A non-descipt soldier in the standard mirror-faced helmet of the Federation foot soldier stepped forward to take the bag from Mate, but I slapped a hand onto his should to stop him. "Now then, about my pay, I believe you owe me 900 a tooth."
The Admiral's grin never faltered. "Come now, Captain, must we get down to business so quickly? I have a bottle in my office I'm sure we could share while you regale me with the story of the Tunith gang's last moments."
Something about the tone in his voice brooked no arguement. I HATE people who brook no argument. I like arguing. More than that, however, I wanted to get paid, and it looked like the only way to manage that right now was to take him up on his request.
"I hope you'll indulge a little paranoia on my part, Admiral, and let my first mate come with me," I said carefully. He merely smiled and nodded his head slightly, and we were shown the way to his office.
I imagined deep pile carpets, padded seats, maybe even a fish tank or something. I mean, come on, he's an officer, y'know? They get cool stuff. On the contrary, though, he had a simple desk with a folding chair and a stack of boxes that turned the already small and spartan room into a somewhat crowded affair.
He reached into a box and drew out the promised bottle, along with a sleeve of paper cups the size of shot glasses. "I apologize for the mess," he said smoothly, "but I only recently became the Admiral of the Mothra."
"What were you doing before this?" I asked out of half interest. Keep him talking, keep him happy, get paid, go home, no incidents. The LAST thing I needed right now was to be on the run from the Feds. AGAIN.
"I was in command of... well, that's classified, actually, so I'm afraid I cannot go into too much detail, suffice to say that Federation R&D funds are running a bit dry." He heaved a sigh, shaking his head as he poured out three tiny amounts of the bottle's contents. He offered them to me and Mate, and I took mine cautiously, giving it a critical eye.
"Milk?" I asked incredulously. "How the HELL did you get this?"
He chuckled. He knew as well as I did that milk, like a lot of comforts from times long past, was exceedingly rare. It wasn't that the cows that made milk had gone extinct or anything; but it was discovered a long time ago that cow's milk is only... let's just say consumable if the cow lives in a VERY specific environment. Y'know, Earth. Martian milk, for example, runs like water and can be used as a suitable substitute for engine grease, and not much else. I think it has something to do with the gravity, or the fact that it's green, or something. I have no idea.
"Your work for the Federation the last few months has drawn the attention of some of the Brass," the Admiral stated, expertly dodging the question while at the same time kicking the plot back into motion. "I've been asked by my superiors to hire you for a job."
"No offense, Admiral," I snorted, plainly lying, "but I'd like to hit a slum pub and get some work the old fashioned way for a change. I got nothing againt the Feds," another lie, and I think we all knew it, "but I'm not your lap dog."
The Admiral seemed to think about this before finally cracking a grin. "Very well, Captain. But do keep in touch. Should you decide to take me up on my offer for employment, the Mothra will be holding orbit above GK-344 for the next month until we recieve our new orders. You will be welcome to come aboard and chat with me at any time."
Mate and I left, still holding the paper cups. I don't know what YOU think of the stuff, but milk, GOOD milk, is goddamn delicious, and something I intended to savor.
Doc, who apparently worked MUCH faster than I thought he did (Note to self: Pay him more. Or less. Not sure yet.) met us back at the docking bay, holding onto the card worth all the money we had been paid (minus tax, for some reason.) and we all boarded the Universal together. When we were safely aboard and squared away, Rudder disengaged from the Federation ship and we sailed back out into the blackness.