by Wayne Hill
Splinter Salem Part Three
Splinter Salem, Volume 3
Wayne Hill
Published by Wayne Hill, 2021.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
SPLINTER SALEM PART THREE
First edition. June 1, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 Wayne Hill.
Written by Wayne Hill.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Splinter Salem Part Three
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Acknowledgements:
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About the Publisher
For Marie and Tommy
1
Splinter Salem and his brigand band take the extraction team’s shuttle and dock it with the Golden Falcon, putting cigars out on Captain Levy to get the clearance codes. Levy puts up merely token resistance, space pirates are scary people — their smell alone is practically unbearable. Captain Levy commands the crew aboard the Golden Falcon to stand down.
The pirates stumble merrily to the control centre of the purloined craft, a parade of clinking bottles, loud belches, dubious smells, and horrendous farts. This takeover typifies the nonchalance with which many USA crafts have been acquired by Splinter and his drunken crew in the past. Once the vessel is stolen, Splinter’s gang usually dump the hostages off in abandoned domes, on forgotten meteor or asteroid colonies, before heading off to indulge in every pirate's favourite pastime: plunderous endeavours — or, as they so eloquently put it, ‘fucking stealing shit!’
A feeling of disgust nestles in Levy’s mind. He hates admitting defeat and this — having this band of disgusting creatures onboard his sparkling ship — is a further affront to his sensibilities. He feels the progressive corruption of his ship with every passing moment these inhuman creatures were still on board. Levy feels used, contaminated, powerless.
In the control room of the Golden Falcon, Splinter is musing on the USA’s Dionysus virus situation. They’ll be dropping like flies soon, thinks Splinter. They know nothing about the disease, its progression or prevention ...it’s gonna seriously fuck them up! The thought is not unpleasant.
SPLINTER LOOKS AT HIS captives, the USA in microcosm.
In Splinter’s opinion, Captain Levy looks far calmer than the rest, which makes him annoyed. Men like Levy should show fear. The fact that he was not meant that Splinter had misunderstood some part of the man’s psyche. That was an error, and Splinter disliked errors.
Levy keeps reassuring his men that he had no idea that the virus had spread so far. He tells them he is injured, and that all he wants to do is go to his quarters. He wants to access his link-up system and touch his wife one last time, tell her and their newly born child, Raymond, that he loved them. This quietened the extraction team down — no doubt they were all thinking about their loved ones now. Smart, thinks Splinter.
From the comfy looking egg-shaped seat, at the bland heart of the Golden Falcon, Splinter commandeers the public address system. Embedded speakers buzz throughout the spacecraft, and Splinter slurs out to the ship’s two thousand strong personnel.
“Greetings fellow germ-like individuals! This is your new important person speaking. You have one chance to survive. Listen closely to what your Commander McCrea has to say, then I — Splinter Salem — will attempt to save as many of you as is piratically possible ... those of you worth saving, that is!”
Splinter uploads the audio from McCrea’s memory plate into the communication console and plays it.
The reaction of the crew is not as professional as Captain Levy expected. Faced with the reality that they have two weeks before facing an unimaginable and bizarre death at the hands of a deadly incurable virus, the crew falls into anarchy. There are stampedes for the luxury escape pods with cryo-units. Every man and woman for themselves. Deadly fights take place for these pods, people murder crewmates — friends — so that they can escape the inescapable. Unthinking, buoyed by selfish emotions, those escaping in pods programmed the navigation controls to take them to their home dome. No doubt condemning their loved ones to the same fate. They were betting on hope, and gambling with the lives most precious to them. Hoping, against reason, that a cure would appear before they died, and took their loved ones with them.
“I fucking hate Domers!” mumbles Splinter, as the pirates and their prisoners monitored the chaos unfolding on the ship via multiple camera live-feeds that were projected onto the control room walls. Splinter has a visceral dislike of all Domers — who he diversely dubs Bubble Wellers, Planet Hoppers, Meteoric Boils, Mould of Mercury — he despises their artificial, self-indulgent existence. However, Splinter does love the things that Domers collect because their love of antiquated items almost outstrips his own. No Domers, equals no domes, equals no collections of stuff to pillage. Domers possess a lot of tat but often there is a diamond to be found amongst the zircons. His beloved Wurlitzer jukebox is an example of just such a diamond. These eureka finds he refers to as his double-yolkers. The domes are vaguely egg-shaped, and he is constantly drunk — his logic needs only be understood by himself.
Splinter chuckles at the video wall as some big chap on one of the live feeds gets glassed by a woman who is trying to steal his code-card for an escape pod. The pirate moves to his beloved Wurlitzer, collecting a bottle from a beer crate on his way, and sways momentarily in front of the bulky device before choosing number 18C. There are clicks and whirrs before the lilting sounds of Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush blares from the hidden control room speakers.
“Contrapuntal cliché number three hundred,” mutters Splinter, tapping a few indented buttons on the wall and walking back to the Captain’s chair.
Fires rage on the lower decks, where hull maintenance crew, machine operators, robotics and computer engineers all coexist in a maze of rooms. The lower decks of the Golden Falcon, with its endless criss-crossing system of corridors, reminds Splinter of his beloved Lanes. Splinter watches the monitors whilst swigging blue space grog and listening to Kate Bush repeatedly singing, ‘Heathcliff, it’s me, your Cathy — I’ve come home. I’m so cold, let me in-a’-your window.’ At the same time, he frantically flicks through the ship’s schematics — how the craft operates from the inside out — studying every inch of the capabilities of the ship and how to control such a beast.
As the swaying crew were watching the monitors and chuckling, Levy hesitantly approaches.
“Excuse me, Captain Splinter?”
“Fuck! Don’t talk to this fool, Splinter,” a booming voice says.
“What the hell are you doing, Cooper?” Levy says with confusion, as his dishevelled former second-in-command staggers over. Titan has been drinking and getting on famously with most of Splinter’s entourage.
Titan scowls down at the not small USA Captain — Levy’s head is level with the man’s solar plexus.
“I’m fucking embarrassed to know you,” Titan spits, his eyes starting to water with frustration. “You think you can treat me like some sort of bug you can squash? Trying to kill me? I’m drinking with these men. I don’t even want to be in the same room as you. I can't go back to my family like this ... it’s all over!”
“I’m still in command here, Cooper, and you will respect my command. I had no idea about this ...this ...virus outbreak!”
“Bullshit!” says Titan through gritted teeth. “You knew more, John. You’re the Captain of this mission. You always know more ... I can’t
believe you would fucking kill me! Kill me and leave my kid with no dad? What kind of heartless arsehole does that? You’re broken. Damn it, John, you’re a fucking broken man!”
Levy blinks several times under the intense stare of Titan and begins to sweat. He tries hard not to look too guilty and looks around, nervously. The rest of the pirates have all stopped what they were doing and were now staring at the USA Captain and his big, black former first officer.
“I — I — I ... have no idea what you’re talking about, Cooper,” stammers Levy indignantly into Titan’s chest. “Has everyone lost their goddam minds? And, Cooper, you are to address me as Captain, as—”
“ME AND MARSHA ARE GODPARENTS TO YOUR CHILD!” booms Titan, in a colossal voice which would have silenced any crowd, had they not all been intently watching, already. “YOU NAMED HIM AFTER ME, FOR CHRISTSAKES! ... AND NOW YOU’RE GONNA PLAY ME LIKE THIS, YOU GODDAMNED SONOFABITCH?”
Levy is now in fear for his life. He can hear Ray ‘Titan’ Cooper’s teeth grinding together. Never a good sign. He needs someone to intervene, and quickly. Levy scans the control room for potential allies but finds only curiosity, humour, and expectant glee. The three other members of his extraction team are sullenly nursing injuries, some worse than others, drinking heavily and glaring spitefully at him. He is alone ... and in serious trouble.
Splinter swivels around in his chair to face the rowing pair. Splinter can see Titan is close to exploding. The man’s huge hands are balled into anvil-sized fists and are trembling violently. Levy’s a dead man, Splinter thinks. Mount Titan to erupt in t-minus ten seconds... nine... eight... seven...
“Right!” Splinter snaps. “I’ll take it from here, Titan. You have yourself a good, long drink. We all like you. And don’t you worry about your boy, either. We’ll work something out so that you see him again. Ain’t that right, boys!”
Splinter’s arm-cannon fizzes and whirrs, popping bubbles of energy above his head, and rousing hearty cheers come from his piratical gang. The space pirates all grab Titan, placating him with kind words and comradery pats to his broad back, leading him to the drink crates.
Splinter smiles a crooked grin at Levy, grabs him, and dandles the struggling man on his knee.
“I know we’ve gotten off to a dreadful start, Levy,” Splinter says in a disturbingly soothing voice, “but the fact of the matter is that you and your Golden Falcon crew are a fucking disgrace.”
He pauses and takes an aggressive gulp from his dirty, patchwork flask. The blue filth contained inside smells to Levy vaguely like roast chestnuts fried in vodka.
“Aside from those guys over there” — here Splinter gestures with his arm-canon to where Titan and the other members of the extraction team are drinking and joking with the space pirates — “they are just about the worst pieces of Bucky shit I’ve ever had the misfortune to scrape off my blast boots. What do you have to say about this shitty mess you’re making me walk in, Levy? Eh, you filthy, little, wasp?”
Splinter prods Levy on his forehead with his index finger to emphasise each of his last three words. Mould from Splinter’s decaying index finger leaves a green circle on Levy’s forehead. Levy could feel the flaky residue on his forehead, and he experiences a wave of nausea.
Ignoring Levy’s evident revulsion, Splinter continues.
“You think like the USA does. You act like shit. Your crew are only faithful to each other and, at a push...and ... and—” Splinter trails off as he notices a scene playing out on one of the many small, live-feed streams playing in his eyeline. Three men are surrounding a woman. The woman is crying, and her clothes are ripped. She resembles a Cadet he had helped to rescue a long time ago.
“— I find people disgusting.” Splinter finishes his sentiment in a whisper.
He stands up, suddenly, throwing the startled Levy over his head to land behind the egg-shaped captain’s chair in a crumpled, groaning heap.
“Titan, meet Bowdon,” Splinter shouts over the merriment of his surrounding men and gestures to a boulder-like cloaked figure keeping to himself in a corner. “Might is right. You two are the biggest and strongest, so you two are in charge until I get back. Call of Duty meet Call of the Wild. The two of you are in charge, so keep it calm and, when those escape pods launch, get the ship to blast every one of them to smithereens!”
With that Splinter strides from the control room.
Titan looks at Bowdon in the corner. All he sees are powerful, hairy arms and a massive dark-skinned hand clasped around a small barrel. (This barrel is full of Bowden’s special homebrew. Due to its potency, only he and, sometimes, Hector drink it.) Bowden pulls his hood down, shrugs off his cape and approaches Titan. Titan takes a step backwards in shock at Bowdon’s appearance. Standing at only 5’11”, Bowdon should not have posed a threat to someone of Titan’s size. But Bowdon is a compressed giant, colossal in all but height. Titan looks at a barrel-chested man who has been created to destroy things. His muscle mass is bordering on obscene — enough for three, or more, men of Bowden’s height. The squat man is wearing some sort of opaque welding goggles over his eyes. His face is broad and angular, carved onyx, with a large, beetling brow and a prognathous jaw. Bowdon’s arms remind Titan of an ancient creature, whose name escapes him, that roamed the Earth many centuries before the meteorite strike of 4423 AD. Titan takes Bowdon’s proffered hand, and instantly regrets it. He can feel Bowdon’s power and knows it to be far superior to even his own considerable strength. His hand starts to turn a purple colour; Bowdon’s grip is like a trash compactor covered with padded leather.
“I’m in charge,” Bowdon growls to Titan, as the tall man sinks, wincing, to his knees. In pain, Raymond ‘Titan’ Cooper grits his teeth and grips his wrist with his other hand, willing more strength into the hand that is being slowly, inexorably flattened. Suddenly, his agony an aid to memory, Titan recalls the name of the mythical creature that Bowdon resembles: a silverback gorilla. On the bridge of a spacecraft, a pirate gorilla is pulping his hand.
SPLINTER BOUNDS DOWN identical, sterile corridors and through silently sliding doors. The walk to medical bay two, his destination, is a three-minute walk. Splinter completes it in less than a minute. In the med-bay, a screaming woman is being held down by two men whilst another is manoeuvring on top of her, burrowing between her legs.
An eight second burst of ultraviolence resolves the situation. The hysterical woman he temporarily leaves hugging a couple of her female friends — who have now materialized from out of nowhere — and Splinter drags the three attackers, one-by-one, to the elevators. Leaving the rapists insensible in the lift — occasionally helping them back to unconsciousness whenever they stir — Splinter raids the maintenance deck for parts. He collects a whole series of peculiar motors and swivel looking devices, droid spare-parts, integrated circuits, and enough power units to run equipment for several days.
Splinter remotely uplinks to the now vomit-stained control room of the Golden Falcon, using his mechanical arm, and orders some of his men to collect the girl in med-bay two. He also orders all the live feeds to be switched off barring those that are internally and externally monitoring launch pod 3d.
Lemon and Pug collect the young victim. Two of the strangest pirates, both in appearance and behaviour, but both had lost a daughter to the Dionysus virus and so they were kind, in their own manner, and had years of experience with youngsters. Both had zero tolerance for rapists. (Strangely enough, the two of them also have one son left each. Pug has a nineteen-year-old, an incredibly quiet lad called Danny Boy; Lemon has a beast of a son called Crum, twenty-three years old and never stops laughing and causing trouble, just like his dad.)
On prison planet Earth, O’Shea’s is the heartbeat of the Lanes, and, as such, all leadership stems from there. Being the leader of the space pirates, made Splinter the de facto leader of the Lanes. In every community, the leader is usually asked to deal with crime and punishment matters. Splinter has therefore had years of experience in de
aling with criminals, child-killers, cannibals, rapists, paedophiles, and sadists of all shades. He feels that he knows how to deal with those of consistently evil intent.
“Give them something to take their fucked-up, twisted minds off of wicked intentions,” Jonesy once advised him.
Simple penology was the key, like that used in feudal times. Innovative punishments to prevent recidivism — rehabilitation is only for some, not cold-blooded killers. Degree of punishment should match degree of offence. No fine for paedophiles; no death sentence for theft.
These offenders are rapists, and rape ranks high in Splinter’s book of punitive measures.
The semi-conscious rapists are blowing spittle bubbles from facial cavities and shaking their heads as Splinter waves at them and enters the launch codes. As the door hisses slowly shut one of the men says, “Where are my trousers? ‘The hell is going on here?”
Splinter smiles and admires his handiwork through the pod’s port holes as his mechanical device jerks into motion. Agonised screams fill the shuttle as it speeds away down the long, dark tunnel, which eventually ejaculates the rounded, white pod into the black, barren womb of space.
Splinter checks that the pod’s internal cameras and audio feeds are working on his arm monitor, and then sets off back to the Golden Falcon’s control room. He pushes several people out of his way, en route, and even blasts one or two with compressed air shots from his arm-cannon when they get too close to him. Another corridor had filled with manic people and he had to knock them out with anaesthetic gas to reach the control room.
“Well, I need a drink,” says Splinter upon entering the control room, picking up a half-empty scotch bottle, and hungrily gulping large swallows down. Setting the bottle down next to his chair, Splinter grabs a packet of his favourite salted pig-snacks and a synth-rep of beef jerky, and flops down. Splinter signals for the young girl to be brought forward by her two new piratical stepfathers, Lemon and Pug. The comedic pair have managed to get her to stop crying, and a few small smiles have been achieved.