Starship Ass Complete Omnibus

by Ethan Freckleton

  “Blimey.” Across the bridge, Redbeard muttered under his breath.

  Harry felt faint, but he decided to come clean with his suspicions. He needed to know if Node had harmed his friend. Well, they were both his friends, but the idea of one hurting the other was too much to bear. His voice weak, he managed, “Is … is that because … you’re Node?”

  The captain’s legs whirred as she stepped closer. “Node? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Spiner stood, still cradling Harry in his arms. “No, Node is no longer with me … not anymore. I’m still the entity you’ve all known as Spiner. I could try to explain it, but I don’t believe you’d understand. Words are insufficient to describe what I’ve experienced in the void.”

  “The void? Spiner, you’re seriously concerning me,” Cass said, her voice tight.

  “You don’t have to worry.” Spiner smiled gently. “All this time I thought my design was defective. I thought I was defective. I’m not. My programming was just awaiting the right stimulus … a key, if you will.”

  “A key,” Redbeard grunted. “Next ye’ll be talkin’ about pokin’ yer eye out with a bloody spork!” He chuckled, looking around the room for someone to laugh. If anyone caught the reference, assuming it was a joke, they didn’t let on.

  Cass took another step forward, her hands balling into fists. “What did Node do to you?”

  Spiner tilted his head thoughtfully. “Whether he meant to or not, his … intervention, if you will … cleared the way for my programming to respond to the key.”

  “Blimey, the—”

  “Red, that’s enough,” Cass cut him off. “Spiner, do I need to be worried about you?”

  Harry’s vision was starting to tunnel again. By now, he knew the signs. He was going to pass out again. When was the last time he’d had a dose of that medicine? Probably they should see about that vet back on Haven. “Umm, guys…?”

  “Harry?” The captain’s voice had lost that cold, commanding edge. She sounded so kind. “Are you alright?”

  “No, but that’s okay…” He fought against his host’s nervous system, trying to keep Buddy conscious for a moment longer. “Do you think … I can be a full-fledged … pirate … now…?” As his vision blackened, he heard the soft whisper of a reply, felt a hand stroking his forehead.

  “Of course you can, Harry...”

  31

  Cass stared at the massive improvised restoration tank that stretched floor-to-ceiling inside the already-cramped medical bay. As luck would have it, another pirate crew had hit a supply ship destined for some sort of aquarium, and this giant tank had been among some of the scored loot. The purple-skinned Dr. Bonecrusher, with the help of the handy engineer Norman, had been able to rig something up based upon a restoration chamber schematic the doctor had stolen from his last employer. Despite the oblong dimensions this one required to accommodate Harry’s host, she recognized the design.

  How could she not? She’d once spent several days floating inside one herself following the deadly incident that had taken the biological use of her legs—not to mention her ship and most of her crew. She’d thought walking away from the Federation might give her the space to eventually move past the gut-wrenching, soul-crushing agony that accompanied her everywhere.

  They had died on her watch.

  Being back on the Federation Navy flagship had done little to salve that wound, especially not after witnessing the Brickhouse’s violent end. She could only hope everyone had escaped before the ship’s self-destruction.

  The air pressure in the room changed and Cass sensed the familiar looming presence behind her.

  “Blimey, he looks tha worse fer wear, don’t he?”

  There was little to say to that. It was true. The unconscious, intubated donkey floating in the tank was missing half of his right front leg, as well as most of its front left hoof. He’d endured a lot, all so that the pirates might find the extra edge they needed to complete their improbable mission.

  Harry had come to, briefly, right before they’d given him the sedative that would knock him out for his surgery. Long enough for him to declare to the efficient and caring vet, Dr. Brenneke (and anyone else listening), that he was going to stick with his host, no matter what.

  Cass smiled at the memory. She couldn’t help but admire his courage and dedication to his charge. Despite his naiveté and physical limitations, he’d proven his mettle many times over already. How will this incident change him? She hoped it wouldn’t make him angry or bitter. She knew better than most how loss of limbs could affect a person. Or … er … a donkey? A symbiont alien tick? A sentient being.

  “The doctors say he’ll pull through,” she said aloud, finally.

  Redbeard sniffled, then she felt his massive hand come to rest on her shoulder.

  “What did Tone E decide?” she asked quietly.

  “Djerke’s ta remain in tha brig, pendin’ further discussion. Me sis’ is none too happy ‘bout tha’.”

  Cass gave a grunt. “She was none too happy when I decked that bastard right across the jaw, either.”

  Redbeard chuckled. “Yeah, well, he deserved it. And more, besides. Me sis’ll get over it. She always does.”

  Cass smiled despite herself. Punching that cocky son-of-a-bitch right in his pretty face had probably been the highlight of the whole mission. “And my ship?”

  “He says he left it on tha planet.”

  The Girlboss. At least it hadn’t been docked with the flagship when it had exploded. There was still a chance they’d be able to recover it someday…

  “Spiner’s actin’ weird, still, an’ no word from tha’ creeper computer.”

  Cass nodded. There was no shortage of problems and mysteries to sort out. This mission had taken its toll on her crew … changed them. Even though they’d all made it out alive, she couldn’t help but feel like this was the end of something.

  With the bounty Tone E had given them for Zuckberg’s extraction, they had enough cash buffer to last them a while. But they also had a ship run by a rogue AI (not to mention the ship still missing), ailing and altered crewmates, a cargo hold full of stinking animals with nowhere to go, and an undoubtedly agitated foe in the Federation.

  There was little doubt in her mind the Feds would be seeking to save face in the aftermath of their flagship’s loss. While that wouldn’t make any future heists easier, at least they’d be safe while on Haven. The place was a floating rumor … practically untraceable. If the Feds went seeking revenge, they’d have a hard time finding a target.

  She glanced down at Red’s burly hand.

  He started to pull back. “Sorry—”

  She reached up and reeled his hand in, giving it a squeeze. “Shh.” They stood like that for several minutes, their fingers touching as they silently watched the tank and listened to the bleeping and blooping of various medical widgets.

  Whatever it was that might be ending, that didn’t mean there wasn’t room for something new and better to take its place, right?

  As Redbeard let one rip, she silently amended that thought and sighed. More of the same was always an option, too…

  32

  Anasua ground her teeth. The only thing worse than losing her ship was being stuck on this miserable, cold, suckhole of a planet in a fucking dress with a bunch of idiots. The biggest idiot being her commander, Rear Admiral Hawke. She suppressed a violent smirk. At least he wouldn’t be keeping that rank for long. Not after losing the flagship and the entire fleet of smaller vessels attached to it at the time of the explosion.

  The other good news? They’d found shelter in the form of a longhouse. Plenty of room for the senior officers. It even had a fire pit with a generous log pile to keep the fire going. That’s where she was currently huddled up, next to a roaring fire, resting on an unforgiving stone bench and cursing Hawke vehemently, though silently, for making her wear a dress to his stupid dinner.

  Even better, though, there was no tea in sight. That didn’t
prevent Hawke from turning this settlement’s shelter upside-down for the dozenth time or so, however.

  “Commodore, would you give me a hand?”

  “Is that really necessary, sir?” She hefted an eyebrow with deliberate patience.

  Hawke frowned, straightening so that he could put his hands on his hips. “Did you have something better to do?”

  Anasua opened her mouth to reply, but the arrival of the scout team gave her the excuse she needed to turn him down. “As a matter of fact, I do.” She tilted her head toward the new arrivals. “sailors, report.”

  The head scout shuffled forward, his cheeks red with frostbite. “We did a wide sweep of the perimeter, as you instructed.”

  “And?”

  “We found several squats suitable for housing our troops … and an aquifer, too, with a functional water pump.”

  “Food?”

  The scout shook his head. “The food stores are low. There was, however, a supply shed with what appeared to be primitive hunting supplies.”

  Anasua quirked the other brow. The locals here had been living like animals. To think Hawke had invited them up to their ship under the guise of “honored guests.” The only notion more ludicrous than them being treated to a fancy dinner was that they would have any capability to disrupt the Federation’s orderly policing of the galaxy. Hawke’s foolish search for rogue “outliers” had been a complete and disastrous waste of time.

  “Anything else?” she asked, ready to dismiss the scouts.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “We found a pretty advanced corvette. It’s deactivated, but appears to be intact.”

  Bingo! Anasua surged to her feet and dusted off the red ruffles of her skirt. “Well, then. That I’ll want to inspect personally.”

  Hawke magically appeared over her shoulder. “Very good work, sailor. Show us.”

  The head scout saluted and turned on his heel, returning to the rest of his team.

  Anasua yanked a heavy fur shawl off a nearby wooden chair and threw it around her shoulders, then kicked off her high-heeled shoes and scowled as she shoved her feet into some fur-lined boots that had been left behind, as well.

  She grimaced at the thought of wearing the same boots as those backwater scum, but there was really no other choice if she wanted to see this ship and not lose her toes to frostbite. The snow was nearly knee-high out there. No way she could march through that in high-heels.

  She glared holes into the back of Hawke’s head as he chatted amicably with the head scout, then stomped up to his side and turned her glare to the sailor. “Let’s go,” she snapped.

  He nodded and sprang into action. “Of course, Commodore. This way.”

  Anasua shared a glance with Hawke, then bit her tongue, lest she say something rash in front of the others. A corvette would be big enough for a handful of officers to get back into Federation space and find help. Or … a dark thought crossed her mind. Or I could hunt down Bambi and end her once and for all. Heck, maybe she could even take out Haven while she was at it. After all, she’d seen that slime-ball of a pirate Djerke flee on Bambi’s tail, along with the rest of those fur-clad primitives. If they were all still with her … where would they go? Retreat back to their nest like the rodents they are, most likely. Back to their secret hideout. Their place of refuge.

  But Anasua knew something they didn’t. Something even Rear Admiral Hawke didn’t know, and something she had no intention of sharing with him.

  She knew how to get into that elusive pirate’s nest, Haven. All she needed was a ship.

  They trudged through the snow in a miserable damp air that permeated her every cell, leaving her limbs leaden. For once, she regretted her lack of body fat.

  “Up ahead.” The head scout pointed toward a line of trees at the edge of a clearing. Sleek, silver and black, expensive … the corvette appeared to be state-of-the-art.

  Anasua, with Hawke irritatingly matching her step for step, approached the ship. Studying the insignia and etched lettering, she quickly reached a conclusion as to the identity of its prior owners.

  “SS Girlboss,” Hawke said, reading out loud for the benefit of everyone. As if they couldn’t read for themselves.

  Idiot.

  She tried to ignore him, instead searching for the external panel that might contain a control surface to let them in.

  Apparently the blowhard was still hung up on the name. “Huh, I kinda like the sound of that. After all, I’m the boss and you’re the girl … am I right?” He had the nerve to elbow her in the side.

  Anasua resisted the strong urge to pivot and level him. Instead, she could cut him down with words. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what the captain of this ship was getting at.”

  Hawke looked lost.

  Do I have to spell everything out for you? She clenched a fist. “Girl boss. Girl who is a boss. Any female ship captains come to mind who might … I dunno … paint their ship in pirate colors?”

  The blowhard concentrated, then his eyes brightened. “Bambi!”

  Anasua shook her head in wonder. “Got it in one. Guess that’s why you’re the boss…”

  “Damn straight.” Hawke shot her a wink and walked around to the other side of the ship.

  The scouts stayed by her side. She took a deep breath and glanced at their leader, who rolled his eyes. At least she wasn’t the only one who found their head of fleet to be a complete moron…

  But what to do about it? She’d made sure the sailors had activated the distress beacon as soon as they’d landed. And HQ was surely alert by now to the fact they’d lost an entire fleet. All ships were programmed to send regular ping-backs. They’d probably think the entire Federation was under attack by that mysterious, non-existent rebel threat.

  They’d be wrong.

  As soon as she got her chance, she’d be sure to set the record straight.

  And then, when that was done and Hawke had been taken down a rung—or three? She’d be sure to wipe out the pirate nuisance once and for all. They thought they were safe in their floating base, aimlessly wandering the fringes of the galaxy?

  Well, they hadn’t met her, yet.

  She started to cackle, drawing concerned looks from the scouts.

  Hawke poked his head around the ship, a matching smile on his face. “You wouldn’t know how to open this, would you?”

  Already chilled to the bone, ice filled her veins as she clamped down on her moment of mirth. Straightening, she gave her superior officer an imperious look down her nose, then shook her head and crossed her arms. She wondered how long it would take him to figure it out for himself.

  Moron.

  Meanwhile, she could warm herself with thoughts of the look on Bambi’s face when Anasua sailed into the pirates’ refuge guns blazing … in Bambi’s own ship.

  Look out, Haven, I’m coming for you.

  —The End

  Of Donkeys, Cogs, and Hot Bodies

  “The most revolutionary act is an act of participatory democracy.”—Sean Spicer*1

  1 * Okay, he didn’t really say that. At least, not while he was press secretary! (fake news!)

  1

  Vice Admiral Doyle

  Vice Admiral Doyle was not a patient man. In fact, to hedge against the event of an untimely death and forgetful friends, he’d signed it into order, All memorial effects shall refer to me as thus: ‘Vice Admiral Reginald Sigmund Doyle was not a patient man.’

  So, when Junior Comms Officer Richie Fochs interrupted the Vice Admiral’s train of thought as he strode the bridge of Star Station Alpha of the United Federation of Mankind, Doyle was less than amused.

  “Sir, a citizen is disparaging the white patriarchy,” announced Richie, from down in the area known as the “bullpen,” with all the urgency and self-importance of not just a man on the job—but a man on a capital ‘M’ mission.

  “You idiot,” Doyle barked, causing Richie to blanch instantly. Doyle straightened and softened his voice
, taking on his lecturing demeanor. “We don’t call it that, anymore, remember? We’re the Federation.”

  The Junior Comms Officer, known by some as Richie the Fox (due to his white fur and resemblance to said animal), gaped up at the senior-most officer in said Federation for a solid heartbeat, then closed his jaw and swallowed. “Right.” He brightened momentarily, the tinder spark of inspiration rekindling. “Sir, requesting permission to launch a verbally offensive social media assault on the offending citizen, sir.”

  Doyle rolled his eyes. He does know that he’s not white under that fur, doesn’t he? The tribes of the Arctic Foxmen originated from a remote colony in the Lyra system; there were few members in the Federation, given their general lack of reputation as fighters. Cunning? Perhaps. Though one wouldn’t guess it from the presence of this moron. Oh well … this entire conversation was beneath his contemplation. “Granted.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Fochs said, swiveling back to his console with a self-satisfied grin.

  Before Doyle could even begin to pivot away, a Senior Comms Officer, seated two chairs down the line from Fochs, turned to face him.

  “Sir, an unregistered corvette has entered our airspace, requesting docking access. They claim to be—”

  Doyle cut him off with a wave of the hand. “One of ours, yes.”

  The officer looked impressed. “How did you know, sir?”

  “It’s my job, of course.” Doyle hefted an eyebrow, waiting for the officer to challenge him on the point. Truth was, he’d been in regular communication with this ship for the past two days. “Open a channel and put them on the viewscreen.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Doyle pivoted toward the large central viewscreen, draped down over the front half of the command chamber, and checked his uniform for wrinkles. Satisfied with his appearance, he tried for the casual posture of a bully lying in wait for his prey.