Very Dead Indeed
The Herc Braveman Adventures, Volume 2
Herschel K. Stroganoff
Published by No World Press, 2017.
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Very Dead Indeed: A Herc Braveman Adventure
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Very Dead Indeed: A Herc Braveman Adventure
Space Captain Herc Braveman marched purposefully along the corridor towards the bridge of the class-4 starship, the DEM.
Herc lit up a Quantum Cigarette as Third Technician Redshirt ran towards him with flailing arms and a panicked look in both of his eyes. "Captain Braveman, sir," he snaped, standing to attention. "We have orders from the Intragalactic Administration."
With a cool puff of his Quantum Cigarette, Herc regarded Third Technician Redshirt with narrowed eyes — the eyes of a man with suspicion in his eyes. Herc's muscles bulged. His biceps looked as though two giant space tortoises were wrestling inside the arms of his crisp silver spandex uniform, pushing from within like an alien ready to burst free and run amok around the DEM (of course, biceps are muscles and not giant space tortoises or aliens, so everyone would be safe... or were they? (They were)).
Herc was tougher than Quaid, more resourceful as Ben Richards and was as cool as Arnold Schwarzenegger in either Batman Forever or Batman and Robin (whichever one it was he played the Snowman).
"Go on," said Herc, unflinchingly.
"There's been no communication coming from Planetennamen in six space months and they need you to investigate."
Herc rubbed his chiselled jaw, racking his immense brain. "In the Sternsystem star system? Yes, I know of that planet. Why has the Intragalactic Administration not heard from them?"
"We don't know, Captain — that's what we need to find out."
Herc puffed his Quantum Cigarette and considered Third Technician Redshirt's words. Why had communications stopped at Planetennamen? Planetennamen wasn't just some backwater world on the who-gives-a-crap fringes of the galaxy (that would be like if Stoke-on-Trent, Detroit or Dudley suddenly became irrelevant — major star systems like that don't drift into obscurity overnight).
"Thank you, Third Technician Redshird," said Herc. "You run along now." Herc slapped Third Technician Redshirt on his pert little bottom — not in a gay way, just in the way that two man who are friendly with each other do when they know each other very much. It's a bit like a friendly snap of a towel against a teammates nut-sack while showering, or an oily wrestle to break the tension — it's not gay, it's just what men do and it's completely fine and normal. And if you think it's gay, maybe you need to take a look in the mirror, buddy.
Herc patted Third Technician Redshirt on the head with a manly hand then stroked his chin with the same hand after Third Technician Redshirt ran off.
He considered his next move, rubbing his chin considerationly as he did so, thinking, thinking.
Herc strode into the navigation room with a concerned look on his face. It was as though someone had pointed a facial cannon directly at his handsome face and blast him with the frown setting turned almost up to full. He reached for his space communicator and summoned his robot slave M-ArtIn.
M-ArtIn looked exactly like you'd imagine a robot to look. His movements were robotic and his voice sounded like something from a Kraftwerk record, but his personality was more human than most humanoid beings.
During M-ArtIn's creation at the Macdappooglesoft Cola factory in that London, on Mars, a mad scientist added an extra row of punchcards during the design of M-ArtIn's negatronic brain. The nuclear polarity became re-routed and the quantum megablurgs went haywire — as would be expected. Many thought M-ArtIn would melt like an ice cream on a hot day on Venus, falling to the ground with a splat and making kids cry, but that didn't happen - that didn't happen at all — kids weren't allowed on Herc Braveman's starship.
Instead, M-ArtIn's negatronic brain transmurblified and he became aware of his own self-awareness. It would be like a kid with an ice cream that fell off its cone, but instead of making the floor look like the next morning after one of the Space Pope's bukkake massacres, the ice cream would enter the kid's mouth. Once inside the mouth of the child, the ice cream would then give the kid a level four brain-freeze, but when the kid's brain thaws, he's got a better brain than the other kids. It really is that simple.
The kid would no doubt get bullied, and rightly so. He'd be different, and that would be weird. But the kid would grow up with a superior intellect and a perspective on the universe scientographers could only dream of. Though, what with the bullying and the years of isolation, the kid would probably grow up to be a mad scientist — like the one that created M-ArtIn. So perhaps extermination would probably be the best option when a kid drops his ice cream.
Herc was aware that M-ArtIn was aware of his own self-awareness, but he was also aware that M-ArtIn was damn good at his job. And being damn good at your job was what mattered to Herc (who was also damn good at his job). M-ArtIn was the best damn robot slave in the Intragalactic Empire, and Herc knew it.
"Slave, show me Planetennamen," Herc said, amiably.
M-ArtIn projected a holo-map of the Empire in the space between himself and Herc (that's space as in space between stuff, not space as in space space). Thousands of small white dots rushed by as if looking down a waterfall, but backwards — a kind of waterclimb, if such a thing existed (they don't). A small G-type star on the outer rim of sector five was highlighted and the system data showed that it was home to Planetennamen.
"As you can see, Planetennamen is eighty-five light years away," said M-ArtIn. "It's too far away for the DEM's supersonic nuclear ion warp quark thrusters."
"It's time to go HD," said Herc.
Herc gathered his crew onto the large viewing platform on the DEM’s bridge, its swooping space-windows providing a panoramic view of infinite space beyond — or at least a lot of it.
“As I don't need to explain,” Herc began, pacing before his crew made up of a rag-tag bunch the Empire’s finest underdogs. They were misfits, but they were his misfits, damn it. “Faster than light travel is nothing but science fiction bollocks. The Hawking Dawkin Drive allows us to sidestep space and time through the power of faith. Praise be the Space Pope.”
“Praise be the Space Pope,” said the crew in unison. They didn't need this explanation, because they were all damn good at their job — it's just what they did.
"Our mission is risky and will be fraught with many dangers," Herc said. "We don't know why Planetennamen has ceased communication, but I believe we are probably dealing with space communists."
A gasp spread over the crew like space butter on a slice of Quantum Toast.
"Ready the Miracle drive," said Herc.
"Right you are, Sir," said one of the crew (it doesn't matter which, he's incidental to the story. Actually, I suppose M-ArtIn could have said that).
Herc knelt before a font that emanated a rich golden glow, but a glow that did not seem to reflect on any other surface. He bowed his head and whispered a prayer to the Space God and her minions.
For a brief instant, the ship was filled with a chorus of angelic voices as the bridge was covered in a beautiful golden shower. A momentary feeling like yawn, only sideways, passed over the crew as the green and blue swirls of the Planetennamen surface came into view.
“I’ll be going down to the surface with M-ArtIn, Lolita and Third Technician Redshirt,” an
nounced Herc as he lit up a Quantum Cigarette. “Our mission will be to save the planet from what I presume must be a space communist plot.”
"I'll get the space capsule ready to go, Captain," said Third Technician Redshirt.
"The Intragalactic Empire calls," said Herc.
In the DEM's space capsule docking area, Third Technician Redshirt stood with a knitted brow and folded arms. He shook his head and tutted like a plumber considering a pricy guestimate.
"You're acting like a space plumber, what is it, buddy?" asked M-ArtIn.
"Look at these readings." Third Technician Redshirt gestured with his pointing finger.
M-ArtIn snatched the ream of printer paper from Third Technician Redshirt's trembling hand. M-ArtIn looked at the printout, and would have frowned with his own face if his faceplate had the ability form facial expressions. "We can't take the capsule down there. It's too risky."
"What do you think could be causing such an anomaly?"
At that moment and not a moment too soon, Herc strode into the room. "Are we all set to go, Third Technician Redshirt?"
"There's a problem, Captain."
"What sort of problem?" asked Herc, questioningly. He gave Third Technician Redshirt a meaningful look (it was a bit weird and too hard to describe — there was definitely disdain in there, maybe a bit of scorn — the rest of it was a bit vague).
"There's a problem with the readouts," explained Third Technician Redshirt.
"We can't go down there with the capsule," said M-ArtIn. "We're all sure to die if we do — even me, and I'm a robot."
Herc frowned, but knew M-ArtIn was right. "We need to get down to Planetennamen. I've got a job to do, damn it."
"There's nothing we can do, Captain," said Third Technician Redshirt.
"We can't let these damn space communists take over," growled Herc. His voice was bearlike, growling.
"I've got an idea," a smooth lady voice said. It was Herc's niece Lolita — she looked stunning.
"What is it, hun?" asked M-ArtIn.
She stepped into the room and Third Technician Redshirt's face turned as red as his red shirt. "I think we could probably use the Miracle Drive to make a jump to the surface of Planetennamen. It will be risky, but if we can reverse the polarity of the transmodulator and reroute the nuclear relay compressors, I think we should be okay. If my calculations are correct, there's only a one-in-four chance that something could possibly go wrong."
"My dear," said Herc. "The men are talking. Why don't you toddle off and wait outside? We've got a lot to discuss and I wouldn't want to overload that precious little female brain of yours."
Lolita shrugged and walked away. Third Technician Redshirt totally checked out her posterior as she wiggled away, sensually. Who could blame him? She was hotter than a thousand suns (metaphorically, not actually — she would have melted through the ship and died, probably killing the rest of the crew in the process.
"Sorry, about that," said Herc once Lolita was out of the way. "You know how women can be."
"Yes, women can be like that," agreed Third Technician Redshirt.
Herc lit up a Quantum Cigarette and picked up the printout. He examined it with his eyes as a wave of genius passed over his mind. "What if we were to use the Miracle Drive to make a jump to the surface of Planetennamen? It will be risky, but if we can reverse the polarity of the transmodulator and reroute the nuclear relay compressors, I think we should be okay."
"That's brilliant," said Third Technician Redshirt. "That might just work. Part of me does worry that there could be a fatality if things don't go exactly right."
"Make it so," said Herc. "Make it so it works, damn it."
"Yes, Sir," said Third Technician Redshirt, saluting with his hand and arm.
Herc made the final adjustments to his nuclear spacesuit. He checked his space blaster and neuronic space whip — he'd left them charging overnight, so they were good to go.
Lolita pulled her figure-hugging lady-spacesuit up over her firm body as M-ArtIn pulled a spaceball cap over her long red (not ginger) hair.
“Can you hear me Uncle Herc?” she asked, speaking into her radio with a voice that wouldn’t be out of place on one of those premium-rate spacephone lines where ladies talk about dormroom pillow fights while wearing wellies filled with baked beans and, well, you know...
“I can hear you loud and clear,” said Herc. “Are you ready to go?”
"Yes, I'm ready."
"The Intragalactic Empire calls," said Herc.
M-ArtIn, Herc, Lolita and Third Technician Redshirt approached the font of the Hawking Dawkin Drive, hand-in-hand. Herc whispered a short incantation and the four were covered in brilliant angelic light for less than half a space second. The feeling of doing a fart in a bath engulfed them.
And then, they were on the surface of Planetennamen.
“Are we all okay?” asked Herc as he popped the helmet to his spacesuit and lit up a Quantum Cigarette. Herc knew they were at the right place.
“I’m fine,” answered Lolita.
“Me too, but Redshirt didn’t make it,” said M-ArtIn, pointing with a robotic finger to the mangled corpse of Third Technician Redshirt.
Third Technician Redshirt was dead — he was very dead indeed.
“That’s only to be expected,” said Herc, shruggingly.
"That's weird," said Lolita, pointing to a thick cloud heading their way. "What do you think it is?"
"It looks like a cloud, or maybe a swarm of space bugs," said M-ArtIn.
"Buggers!" shouted Herc, instinctively reaching for his space blaster.
"They're not Buggers," said Lolita.
"Yeah, you xenocided the crap out them. If my robo-scanners are correct, then that is a swarm of nanolithic robots."
Suddenly, the robots swarmed them in an instant, the tiny machines crawling all over them like ants crawling over a person in the same way. They scurried this way and that, going hither and tither, zig-zagging haphazardly while making a high-pitched buzzing sound and loads of weird clicks.
Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, they flew away.
"What on this planet was that?" asked Herc, demandingly.
"Are you okay?" Lolita asked, askingly.
"I'm fine," said Herc. "They just tickled a bit."
"That was odd," said Lolita. She went to scratch her head, and found her radio transpondermajig was gone — damn gone. "My radio transpondermajig," she said, panicking.
Herc sighed. "Women. You'd forget your boobs if they weren't attached."
"It's not just her radio transpondermajig," said M-ArtIn. "Your space blaster and neuronic space whip are gone too. And your radio transpondermajig has also disappeared."
"This explains why Planetennamen has dropped off the communication grid," said Lolita. "I think what we're seeing here is some kind of self-replicating robotic intelligence that feeds on technology. It must control that swarm of nanolithic robots to feed its obelisk — there's no other explanation."
Herc turned his head to see a pair of space horses pulling a wooden cart. A man with a fat red face and a shock of grey hair leaned out of the window and smiled. "Is that? Why it is!" He turned back into his carriage and spoke to someone inside, then opened the door. He stepped down from the cart wearing medieval clothing. "Space Captain Herc Braveman, you came!"
"I always do," said Herc. "And you are?"
"My name is Ambassador Platzhalter, I welcome you to our world."
"The Intragalactic Administration sent us to investigate," said Herc, explainfully. "There has been no communication from your planet. There's a worry that it is either space communists, or you're trying to avoid paying your space taxes to the Intragalactic King."
"No, I fear our problem is a little different to those you have just outlined with the words you just said," said Ambassador Platzhalter, shaking his head. "We have been plagued by the blight of a technoplague of nanolithic robots. We're not sure what they want or how we can stop them, but I'm glad
the Intragalactic Empire has sent its best man." Ambassador Platzhalter turned to Lolita. "And the best lady, judging from the look of you," he added zestfully.
"What happened to this place," said M-ArtIn. "Last time I was here, this place was on the bleeding edge of technological innovation."
The Ambassador shook his head regretfully. "Project Hubris," he said. "We thought it would be the greatest achievement of man, but instead we created a monster of our own creation and then it started creating its own monsters of its own creation and so on and so on and so on. It's like we've created tens of thousands of Frankensteins and they're all making their own Frankenstein's monsters."
"What do you need us to do?" asked Herc.
"If we stop the obelisk, then maybe we can rebuild."
"The obelisk?" asked M-ArtIn.
"It's what the nanolithic robots are feeding. Any piece of technology that arrives on Planetennamen is instantly eaten by the swarm of self-replicating nanolithic robots — it's dead annoying." Ambassador Platzhalter started to cry like a woman or a pathetic child.
"That does sound annoying," Herc said, agreemently. "Damn annoying." He wanted to bang his fist on a table to show his anger, but there were no desks around. Instead, he mimed a desk and mimed banging on it with his fist.
"Have you tried turning the obelisk off and on again?" asked Lolita.
"There's nothing we can do," said Ambassador Platzhalter, his eyes filled with loads of tears.
"You should step into my carriage, and I'll take you to my space palace," said Ambassador Platzhalter.
"I'm going to follow where the swarm went," said Lolita. "I want to see if I can get to the bottom of this. Will you come, M-Artin?"
"Sure, hun."
"Excellent," said Herc. He turned to Ambassador Platzhalter. "Do you have a nubile daughter by any chance?"
Slaves poured wine and served hot chunks of meat onto big silver plates as Herc lit up a Quantum Cigarette. The room around them was white and pretty-much featureless. Herc rested his feet on the dinner table — it wasn't done to be rude. Herc oozed cool like a broken space fridge.
Very Dead Indeed: A Herc Braveman Adventure (The Herc Braveman Adventures Book 2) Page 1