I took the pistol. It was a beautiful piece. Antiquated enough to meet nearly none of the newer safety regulations, but up-to-date enough to be able to deliver a barrage of sizzling laser bolts into the face of an enemy.
“She’s a beauty”, I said, marvelling at it.
“It is loaded!” Felipe warned me, unnecessarily. I knew that, I was just running my usual stress tests, which happened to involve pointing it around the place and making explosion sounds. The man had no sense of procedure. I thanked him and we shook hands in a manly fashion. Funkworthy gave the man a warm hug and asked him to convey his fond wishes to the other rebels who had helped him while he was incognito, promising to visit again.
“When we return, we will expect great things of this unified planet!” Funkworthy chided.
Felipe nodded seriously. “We are at the beginning of things, my friends. It is exciting and new, but not without risks. Out of this chaos, we all emerge as new citizens in a baby world and we’ll have to learn to crawl together. In the coming years, we’ll have to work hard to keep out of the shadow of our past. Look at this skyline”, he said, scanning a hand along the spires and towers that jagged into the heavens. “These towers are beautiful. In the old empire-ha! How quickly we move to the past tense-in the old empire, they were a symbol of personal ambition and success. I walked in one tonight for the first time. It was magnificent. I had never dreamed of such sights, of such luxury.” He turned to us again, tears welling in his eyes. “I look forward to tearing them down and building something new.”
He and Funkworthy hugged again briefly. Felipe started back to the party, but looked back to call, “We will build monuments in your honour! Heroes of Aplubia!” He then ran to the hall and a life of work, peril, hope and opportunity.
“Heroes of Aplubia”, Funkworthy echoed in an undertone.
“Sounds about right”, I said, belching lightly.
We boarded the comfortable warmth of our home on the ship and sunk down into the living area’s chairs. I commanded the ship to power up automatically and take us into a low orbit. The hum of engines thrummed through the walls, creating a comforting buzz. I cradled the new gun in my hands thoughtfully.
“It is tradition to name one’s sidearm, a custom I learned in COAR”, I said.
“Pew-Pew again, sir?”
I shook my head slowly and looked out of the porthole as the palace city of Aplubia dwindled on the ground below us, becoming just another part of the globe.
“I was thinking about Melia’ta”, I said quietly. I looked out again and a layer of cloud passed before us, obscuring the city as we settled back into the black. I laughed to myself and looked at my first mate. “You probably think that strange of me. Sentimental.”
“I think, sir, that that is a very fine name.”
“As do I”, I replied and we sat in silence for a moment as the planet receded behind us.
I left Space dozing drunk in the living quarters and walked onto the bridge, thinking that I had never seen an emancipation of a planet that had entailed quite as many drinking games, nor so many slurred renditions of folk songs being belted out into the falling night as former princes vomited in potted plants to the derision of miners they now called equals. It had worked, though, I reflected, with Space things tended to, despite conventional logic or the restraints of the laws of cause and effect.
I pecked out a few buttons on my console and a galactic display shot up in front of me, depicting a few nearby systems in bright lights. I hovered my finger over the console but dallied. I couldn’t make up my mind on a destination or even a reason for a visit to any of the systems. I only really wanted a hot bath and a long sleep.
I heard the approaching steps of Space from behind me. I turned to find him looking remarkably sober, dashing even.
“What’s that place? That greeny planet?” he demanded, waving a finger at the screen.
“Obsolon 6? The Nightmare Planet on the edge of the Fear Nebula? The planet deep within the Forbidden Zone said to be the final resting place of the fabled Medusa Freighter? The dreaded orb that even the most adventurous of space-pirates avoid like death itself?”
“The green one, yes.”
“Sir, that’s a planet that’s been left alone since the Time Wars left the area littered with paradox holes. They say that any craft that enters that area of space emerges at the dawn of time in a parallel universe where the laws of physics are naught but parody.”
“Uh huh, yeah, I think I remember hearing something about that. You seem to know a lot about that place-“
“It is a planet spoken about in hushed breaths by even the most foolhardy of explorers.”
“Well, be that as it may, answer me this one question, Funkworthy, with all your learning: isn’t that the place that sells those socks I like?”
“Wh-” I stumbled, and then looked up at him as he leant on his captain’s chair. He was grinning into the view screen, the infinite blur of stars reflected in his eyes, which shone with a boyish hunger for all of it.
He looked down at me and raised an eyebrow. “Well? Let’s have it. I’m running low and I’ll be a Frenchman’s uncle if I lower myself to the tedious business of laundry!”
“I’m not sure, sir. It… it may well be”, I conceded.
“May… be….” He seemed to weigh the matter deeply for a moment. “Well, there’s no sense in guessing. Set course for the big green marble over there.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded his head briskly and set himself down in the captain’s chair. I saw him smiling serenely as he flicked the familiar controls on his armrest and wiggled around in the plush chair like a dog making itself a bed.
“Good to be back, sir?”
“I missed her.”
“She’s a fine ship.”
“I’m not talking about the ship, Ebenezer. I’m talking about her! Home.” He swept his arm out to the view screen, to the whizzing streaks of starlight that dappled our view. “Space. Out there right now, a thousand fanciful moments are unfolding. Right now we’re missing out on all of them. So set that right, zap us out into the black and let’s hitch ourselves onto the tail of another adventure. Set our course and only stop for one of the usual reasons.”
“The usual reasons, sir?”
“If the day needs saving, if a damsel is in distress, if a people are being oppressed by some oaf who needs a sound thrashing, if a rift in time opens up, if any of my archenemies hatches a dastardly scheme, if wrongs need righted, if rights just aren’t right enough. You know, the usual.”
“I will, sir.”
“Now be a good chap and set course for the edge of forever. Let’s see what the universe has got in store for us this time!”
I nodded back at him and engaged our engines. The ship purred beneath us and geared up for the jump to mega warp. I felt my heart flutter a little with the usual mix of excitement and apprehension. Every leap we had ever made into the black always landed us in some deadly or dangerous peril. Pressing the ‘engage’ button was like volunteering for the verse’s own little game of chance, where the stake was your life but the pot was full of glory. I hesitated, not sure if I was ready to do it again. I thought of that hot bath, that warm bed... I looked round at the Captain, as I always do. Sitting in his chair, he looked rapt at the stars whizzing past us-each one a potential mystery to be solved, each one a chance to prove his legendary mettle against whatever could be mustered against him, against us. I nodded to myself, sure once again.
I pressed the button.
And the ship jumped into mega warp, onward into the black eternity of space, into the next barely planned, ill-advised and scarcely credible adventure of Captain Space Hardcore and me, his trusty manservant Ebenezer Funkworthy.
FIN
-ISHED
Captain Space Hardcore will return in…
Captain Space Hardcore and the Terror of Professor Tempus!
How do you figh
t a man that can teleport back to when you were a toddler and snuff out your life with a bottle of poisoned milk? Or travel back to end your ancestors in Roman times, thus eradicating your bloodline?
If you’re Captain Space Hardcore then the answer is simple: punch him in his big smartarse face.
But the journey to that well deserved thrashing may be a treacherous one, since Professor Tempus and his Time Trousers are as slippy an adversary as our intrepid hero has ever tangoed with. Bending time to his whim the villainous cad is on a crash course with Captain Hardcore’s family tree as it stretches back through the halls of time.
Follow a story that stretches from the primordial ooze of our origins to the furthest reaches of human advancement as one murder crazed time bandit seeks a way to thwart the lion hearted hero of the stars; Captain Space Hardcore, and Space’s second in command tumbles down the time-hole after the Professor and attempts to put right what has gone wrong.
Mind boggling time paradoxes fight for space with high stakes karate fights on every page of this sci fi thriller. So if you have the wit and the fortitude to come on this journey of temporal twisting tension and clock-blocking thrills then waste not a second longer, dear reader. Climb in and buckle up, cos’ this one’s going to get nasty!
About the Author
Pictured: Michael Ronson in repose
Bon Vivant. Raconteur. Philanthropist. Obstetrician. Hero.
All of these words have been used, and (more importantly) understood, by author Michael Ronson, the author of this tome that you have finished reading and are currently recommending to a friend.
Although he is now a beloved author and man, Ronson’s road was not an easy one. He was born as a baby with no published books to his name, no respect and few controllable bodily functions. However, if there’s one thing Michael Ronson is known for it’s overcoming obstacles and his intelligence. So with a few years of practice and study he became a fully-fledged adult, coming top of his class and graduating with honours. With that under his belt he set his eyes to becoming a wealthy and successful businessman.
Several years later Ronson started writing. A brief detour in the field of erotic fiction had proved fruitless and upsetting for all involved, but Ronson carried his love of prose and elaborate, sexual similes over to science fiction.
Ronson had found the love of his life. It was prescription painkillers. But selling science fiction stories was a good way to get money for them and Ronson began spinning what he called “fantastical tales of spaceships and aliens and whatever.”
Years down the line Ronson hit paydirt with the creation of the character Captain Space Hardcore, a man that Ronson conceived of as his Ubermensch. An ardent follower of Nietzsche, Ronson decided to create a man who was perfect in every way. With no character flaws or frailties to hold him back Hardcore was a perfect distillation of Ronson’s far right values and hatred of complexity.
When not weaving dreams or creating art Ronson can be found in his native Scunthorpe where he makes his home, living with two dogs, his adopted son Ebenezer, an ex-wife and a cache of unlicensed firearms.
Praise for Michael Ronson
An absolutely […] book. From start to finish it was […] read. The author is clearly […] very[…] adept at […] writing[...]. G[…]rea[…]t.
Jill Bellows, The Guardian
When I picked this up […] I read it […] later […] it ended.
Henry Goodfellow, The Financial Times
I’ll tell you one thing; this guy can write!
Jeremy Pharr, on marking Mr Ronson’s adult literacy tests
What Ronson is doing is absolutely unbelievable.
David Farrige, Witness for the Prosecution
A towering achievement. Ronson is at the height of his powers and destined for great things. History will remember the name Michael Ronson.
Michael Ronson, unprompted
Ronson is an absolutely spellbinding wizard.
Derek Pakorah, Elder of the Council of Eight
His insight into the human condition is at the same level as his mastery of the written word. Take that how you like.
Justin Bosch, The Daily Bugle
The sexual politics this author displays are alarmingly retrograde.
Some broad
Poetic, humorous, baffling, terrifying, sexy- the books of Iain M Banks are all of these things and more.
NME
Some rare writers have the combination of talent and success. Some have talent but no success, others have success but no talent. Then you have someone like Michael Ronson.
Peter Lemonham, The Observer
An Interview with Author Michael Ronson
Do you have any writing rituals?
MR: I can’t say I’m too superstitious. I know a lot of writers are, but if you can’t write anywhere then, to me, you don’t deserve the title. If you have a pen, paper, pad, computer or even a stick and some sand then I- for one- can write anytime and anywhere as long as I am facing Mecca.
Where do you write?
MR: I think the question is; where don’t I write? The answer to that, slightly superior question is nowhere, so I suppose the answer to your original question might be everywhere. A writer doesn’t ever stop doing their job, like a firefighter or a gynaecologist. We do what we do every second of every day. Am I not creating when I’m cooking or grouting or buying antihistamines? All of life is a source of inspiration. I write in my dreams, which is why I sleep fifteen hours a day.
What is the essence of good writing?
MR: You know, I’d have to say that brevity is the most important. You have to be brief. Say what you mean and get out. Any wasted words have to erased, taken out and completely discarded. No repetition, re-stating or repeatings. You’re just wasting time. If you can’t get to the point then don’t bother the reader. So brevity, in summary is of absolute paramount importance. Boil it down to one sentence. Oh, and an absence of repetition is key too.
Who inspires you?
MR: I get inspiration from everywhere and I sure ain’t no snob. Sure, I’ll break out some Billy Shakes, but I’m just as comfortable reading some Banksy or browsing the lyrics to a rap song done by a hip-hop rapper. It’s all the same to me. But you know who really inspires and challenges me? Me. Not me from now, or from the past- me from the future. I have to strive to be better than that guy. And I shall never stop until I destroy him.
If you were trapped on a desert island, what one book would you bring with you?
MR: (Laughs) This is the bit where I say ‘a book on raft building’, right? Nah, I’ll play along. On a desert island I guess I’d really want something to remind me of the world and my loved ones and the best of civilization. A bit of escapism. I think I’ll go for ‘Lord of the Flies’.
What’s the key to your writing?
MR: I’m honest, not only with myself but with the reader. A lot of authors these days hide behind this oh-so-clever bag of tricks learned from university courses. Symbolism, similes, metaphors, punctuation- I don’t like them, I don’t understand them and I don’t use them. My stories are just that- stories. When I write there’s no hidden meanings. Take my last book- it concerned a lumberjack who spent all day felling mighty oaks and worrying about being ravaged by bear, all the while fighting his addiction to sausages and cigars. That’s a timeless story that simply does not need other layers. It’s bloody useless pretention. Similes are just like a rickety old bridge bowing to a howling wind in a desolate valley in a war torn banana republic. And metaphors? Pah. Imagine a stool. Each leg is a different height and the wood is infested with termites. It is owned by a dog.
How do you think up your plots?
MR: You know, I don’t really make the plot and I think if the writer’s coming up with plot then that’s a big problem. I make the characters and they tell me what they’ll do. The characters are absolutely alive and they speak to me. All I have to do is to listen to them. In fact (chuckl
es) sometimes I wish they would shut up a little bit. They talk to me all the time. All the time.
What’s your-
MR: I haven’t slept in so long. The noise.
What’s your next project?
MR: I’m building a sensory deprivation tank.
And your next writing project?
MR: Oh, well in that regard I have a lot of irons on the fire right now. There’s the next Captain Space Hardcore, of course but I’m also working on more serious, challenging fare. I’m writing a book at the moment that’s kind of taking the basic plot components of the Lion King and transposing that into a human setting. I’m thinking of a royal court of some kind. I’m writing a biography of Oskar Schindler at the moment too, which is really inspiring. It’s hard to find a fresh angle on the guy so right now I’m pitching it as a real nuts and bolts business book: assessing his strengths and weaknesses as a factory operator, so that’s a real big project right now.
The Young Adult market and erotic fiction market are really exploding right now so, artistically speaking, it would be stupid not to cash in on that which is why I’ve started two projects- one about a dystopian space high school (whose cliques will be brought together by one spunky young heroine) and another about a some streetwise swamp monsters having sex with a bunch of lesbian mummies.
We can’t wait!
MR: Oh, I’m sure. Listen, you don’t need to take that tone with me, young lady. I can see when I’m being mocked.
The Court of Crusty Killings: A Captain Space Hardcore Adventure Page 27