J
jrhume
Guest
Okay, you asked for it. 
The following is sort of a SciFi, police procedural, character assassinating spoof.
SPACE DOGS
JR Hume
Call him Monk. His real name is buried forever in an obscure northern settlement on Earth. He is without ambition, in the usual sense. At no time has he ever worked to be the best at anything, but instead practiced peculiar skills until they became natural, an integral part of his physical and mental makeup. He has the uncanny ability to speak, move and act without attracting undue attention. Women, in particular, seldom notice him.
Many aspire to be Master Assassins â “ to be known far and wide as perfect killers. Some achieve that goal and become useless â “ or dead â “ uselessness taken to the ultimate degree. Monk chooses his own targets and thus, his employers, always without personal contact. He receives payment in advance, obviating subsequent dealings with clients. In the vastness of human space there are always plenty of targets. Monk suspects he will never run short of people who need killing â “ and clients willing to pay for a reliable killer.
He was born at the end of the Second Diaspora, when governments had begun to adjust to their new situation by forming the Federation. Recordkeeping, along with many other human activities, had lapsed with the advent of teleportation technology. What good are labels when the labeled can step through the nearest transfer booth and cross into the obscurity of the solar system and from there, the galaxy? But the business of humanity requires order. Federation troops and cops are establishing that order where they can, though the rule of law is still thin in the human cosmos.
Monk's only regular companions are his business manager, Mr. Korus â “ a man maimed in a transfer-box accident â “ and Redeye â “ wannabe assassin and sidekick of sorts.
The Assassin
Transit Point Bog-2
Gandalf IV, Monk's personal FTL cruiser, dropped into normal space at the edge of the Bog System. Passive surveillance arrays at full alert, Gandalf coasted toward the yellow-white primary. Monk sat alone on the bridge, watching the displays. He was always to be found there at such times, clad in full space armor, even though ship comp was programmed to detect and react to any conceivable threat.
A slight squelching noise broke the silence. Monk didn't stir. Mr. Korus flopped across the deck, a misshapen, mucous-dripping lump. A small cleaner-bot rolled along behind, sopping up the slime. The air came alive with a vile stench.
â Å“Thought â “ you be â “ here,â ? gurgled Mr. Korus. â Å“Waste â “ of time.â ? He spoke in a series of bubbling gasps.
â Å“Probably.â ? Monk stared into the void. Korus had been his business manager for many years, but he still found it difficult to look at the thing created in the t-box accident. There was nothing man-shaped in that pile of guts and odd appendages. His natural good manners forced him to keep his visor open, despite the stench. He wished Korus would allow the medics to edit his form back to something approaching humanity. Even just getting rid of the smell would be a vast improvement. It was an old argument.
â Å“Why buy â “ detection â “ gear and tactical comp, then â “ spend time â “ monitoring?â ?
â Å“I await the inconceivable,â ? murmured Monk.
Korus emitted a bubbling that might have been laughter. â Å“A threat â “ beyond comp â “ be fatal.â ?
â Å“Not necessarily. If comp failed to respond, I would panic and initiate random actions. It's a tactic that has served humanity for millennia.â ?
â Å“Ranâ â€d m action?â ? Korus gurgled his might-be laughter again. â Å“Death â “ nine times of ten.â ?
â Å“In the face of certain death, a long chance is better than none.â ?
â Å“A maxim? You â “ make it up?â ?
â Å“No.â ? Monk laughed. â Å“I imagine an early human blundering into the lair of a cave bear and finding the owner at home. He screams, flings his spear and takes to his heels. Sometimes, he would survive.â ?
â Å“You beâ â€lieve this scenâ â€ario?â ?
â Å“Something like it, at least. Perhaps the scream made the bear pause or the spear pierced an eye socket and sank into the beast's brain. Or, my ancestor was quick on his feet.â ? Monk shrugged. â Å“The survivors improved the genetic makeup of the race.â ?
â Å“Inâ â€teresting.â ? Korus began to slither and slop his way aft. â Å“Explore cave â “ keep tight grip â “ on spear.â ? His gurgled laugh and the cleaner-bot's cluck-slurp faded down the passage.
Monk's ear piece clicked. â Å“Cripes, boss, is da blob on da bridge?â ? It was Redeye. He normally kept to the engine room when Korus was aboard. The merest sight or scent of their business manager would kill his appetite and keep him away from his porn collection for days.
â Å“He's back in his cabin,â ? said Monk. â Å“You coming up?â ?
â Å“Maybe. Anything to see?â ?
â Å“Nothing. When comp completes a security sweep, we'll be moving in-system.â ?
â Å“I'll stay put, boss. Gimme a blast if ya need me.â ? Redeye loved everything about gangsters, as depicted in old 2D picture shows. So far, it hadn't been a problem.
Impulse engines cut in, vibrating the ship. Comp reported in its machine-harsh voice. â Å“Captain, security sweep complete. Inbound to Calamity Port. Time enroute: three hours, fifteen minutes. Local arrival time: 1330 hours.â ? No sultry female comp voice for Monk. He thought a machine ought to sound like a machine. Besides, a woman speaking soft words in his ear made him horny.
â Å“Okay, Comp. Use ship ID number seven. Make normal reports.â ?
â Å“ID number seven, aye-aye.â ? The flat panel sign above the aft passage changed from Gandalf to Bobtail Nag. It was the only place on the ship where a name was displayed. Monk never told anyone or anything what ID he intended to use until absolutely necessary. Comp was probably trustworthy, but Monk figured it was foolish to assume a semi-sentient machine couldn't be bribed.
The Ranger
Federation Ranger Central HQ
Asteroid â Å“Flatfootâ ?, orbiting Sol somewhere beyond Mars
Admin Bobbit shoved Ghost's door open. â Å“Monk has disappeared from his usual haunts.â ?
The diminutive Ranger keyed a code word into his comp. Admin's information was verified in seconds. Ghost swore a vile oath in his native tongue, then repeated himself in plain FedSpeak. Admin Bobbit grimaced â “ as if things hadn't gone well with his last bowel movement.
â Å“What does Intelligence have to say?â ? asked Ghost. He already knew the answer.
â Å“Nothing. Monk took his own ship. You know we don't have tracking capability much beyond Jupiter.â ? Admin unwrapped a grinklefruit lollipop and popped it in his mouth. â Å“It's as if he vaporized into thin air.â ?
Ghost slumped in his chair. â Å“There's no air out here,â ? he said to Admin's retreating back. â Å“He vaporized when the ship entered hyper-space.â ? If Bobbit heard, he gave no sign.
Mockingly dubbed 'Space Rangers' or 'Space Cowboys', Federation Rangers were the only police force authorized to operate in all areas of known space, except Earth. That prohibition had it's origin in the earliest off-Earth police forces and was an ironbound fact in folk tales and legend, although known to be breached in practice.
Ghost became a Ranger at age 25, after a stint in the Federation Marines and upon the completion of three years at Ranger Academy. He had just turned 30 when Monk first came into his life. He was now 35 and had never managed to hang anything on the Assassin â “ not even a loitering-with-intent charge.
Rangers worked in a team consisting of two humans and two androids. Only the human team members were authorized to use deadly force on other humans, although the situational programming of police droids was known to be fluid and adaptable. Most people assumed the droids could respond to deadly force with deadly force. Some few survivors had reason to know the fact of it.
Ranger Aguilus stepped into the office and shut the door. â Å“Admin giving you odds on tonight's game?â ?
â Å“Monk's left Earth. He's going to make another hit.â ?
â Å“Merde!â ? Aguilus sagged into a chair. â Å“Any ideas on where?â ?
â Å“Sure,â ? said Ghost, with a vague gesture. â Å“Out there. Somewhere in known space a murderous, thieving creep is going to get whacked. Who and where? I don't know.â ?
â Å“Tell me again why we care about catching Monk.â ?
Aguilus was a native of Appia, third planet in the Vestal System. He was a year out of Ranger Academy, better known as 'Ranger Rat's School for Boys' among those who had become Rangers without benefit of academy.
Ghost liked Aguilus, but couldn't help feeling somewhat jealous at the man's physical attributes. Tall, broad and handsome, women lusted after Aguilus on sight. Fortunately for lesser males, these same women soon tired of his gastric problem. Delicate little squeakers bubbled out of him at irregular intervals and spread with tsunami swiftness, inflicting temporary blindness and olfactory shock. Medics couldn't clear up his condition. Any room he stayed in for more than a week had to be fumigated and painted. He drew field assignments with astonishing regularity. For now he was Ghost's partner.
Aguilus bubbled ominously. â Å“Tell me again why we want to catch Monk.â ?
â Å“Killing people is against the law,â ? said Ghost, sliding his chair back in a casual manner. â Å“Even if their demise is more like a public service.â ? He made a futile gesture. â Å“We have to prevent vigilante justice. Mob rule. All that crap. It doesn't matter. Go collect the droids. Meet me at the ship.â ?
After his partner left, Ghost managed to hold out for another fifteen seconds, then bolted from the office. â Å“Gah!â ? he gasped, from a position five meters into the main area. He glanced around. The only other person present was the statuesque blonde from Test Developments. She was bashing at the heavy, blaster-resistant glass security door. â Å“Let me out, you spawn of deformed snarks!â ? Her snark-spawn alliteration was directed at a gaggle of people holding the door shut. The blonde scowled at Ghost. â Å“You could have at least shut your door!â ?
â Å“Sorry,â ? muttered Ghost as he crept back toward his office. A steady rain of paint particles drifted down from the ceiling and swirled in slow, lazy circles above his desk. He smiled at the Test Developments lady. â Å“I think the worst is over.â ?
She sagged against the still-closed security door. â Å“I'll have to recycle this whole damn outfit.â ?
Ghost lurked inside his office door for several minutes, watching the blonde. She made no move to recycle her garments. Whining with frustration he retrieved his regulation over-and-under blaster/grenade launcher and his non-regulation backup piece â “ a replica Colt M1911A pistol.
The blaster went on his hip, the slug gun into a shoulder holster. He tucked a sturdy knife into his right boot and slid two tubes of mini-grenades into the other boot. A combination stylus and laser designator fit into a pocket on his left sleeve. He was tempted by a pocket protector/mini-nuke, but elected to leave it behind. The ability to utterly vaporize a medium-sized building just wasn't advantage enough to offset the geeky appearance of the pocket protector.
Aguilus waited at the entrance hatch. He was already wearing space armor, including helmet, although the faceplate was open. Their agreement was that Aguilus never, ever removed his armor when aboard ship. Suit filters recycled his air and water, preventing the contamination of everything and everyone. A service bot changed the suit filters often. Used filters went straight into the fusion chambers â “ regulations be damned!
Behind Aguilus stood the other members of Team Zed, a pair of ex-military androids. Officially known as Z-Alpha and Z-Bravo, Ghost had named them Bossi and Slim, for reasons known only to himself. Both were equipped with the lightweight armor. Bossi's armor was dark blue with a set of red and yellow flames starting at his broad brow and snaking down his back. Slim's rig was regulation non-reflective black with no adornment except on his right shoulder, where he had painted a yellow shield with black horse rampant, reflecting his service in a Federation armored unit prior to joining the Rangers.
Military androids, after completing thirty years compulsory service, could sign on as police droids. They were known as 'proids' in polite company, 'futzing proids' in less elevated circles. Proids were equipped with tri-barrel blasters, grenades, knuckles of steel and a rotten attitude.
Bossi snapped to attention and saluted. â Å“It's the Captain!â ? he bleeped. â Å“Atten'hut!â ? Ghost winced at the volume. Bossi's voice sounded like a starship warning klaxon. Ranger techs had thus far failed to locate the difficulty.
Ghost waved off the salute. â Å“Stow the military formality, Bossi. And wind your voice volume down to minimum.â ?
â Å“Aye-aye, Captain,â ? squeaked Bossi.
Aguilus jerked a thumb at the other droid. â Å“Slim says he has indications of fusion bottle over-pressure. Wants to go on sick call.â ?
Slim wasn't really a malingerer. He had the hots for one of the female-pattern nurse-droids down at the maintenance facility. Ghost shook his head and waved his crew toward the entry hatch. â Å“Forget it, Slim. She'll still be there when we come back. Let's get aboard.â ?
â Å“Dang it, Captain!â ? moaned Slim. â Å“We have a date tonight! I think she's about to agree to a servo-meld.â ?
â Å“She's leading you on,â ? said Aguilus. â Å“Word is, she's been melding with a welder-droid over in the shipyard. He's supposed to be a hot stick.â ? The other three groaned. Aguilus grinned. â Å“Okay â “ I made up that last part. But the lady really is playing Slim for a sucker.â ?
Slim's shoulders slumped. The red glow in his vision receptors faded to pink. He turned away and shuffled through the hatch. Bossi followed.
â Å“Did you have to break it to him like that?â ? asked Ghost. â Å“Now he's gonna spend the entire trip whining about being jilted.â ?
â Å“Jilted? Merde! An old word.â ? Aguilus leaned against the hatch frame. â Å“Fragged. That's what droids call it. Slim will be okay. I'll run a psych program on him. Our med-cube has one called, Freud for Gearheads.â ? He burst out laughing.
Ghost chuckled and shoved his partner through the hatch. â Å“Get inside, you idiot!â ? He sniffed. â Å“And check the neck seals on your suit.â ?
Federation
The gravity drive started the First Diaspora. Both power unit and drive, it lifted humans out to the Moon, to Mars and to all the smaller moons and moonlets circling Sol. First they mined and smelted. Then they turned the vast caverns into living areas. The Moon was honeycombed, Mars tunneled, asteroids hollowed out. People took themselves and their intelligent machines to the farthest reaches of livable space. Governments continued to function in the old ways. Old Earth held sway until faster-than-light technology appeared.
FTL drives made their brief appearance, flourished and died. In Monk's time FTL robotic cruisers continued to be launched into the unknown, designed to plant transfer stations wherever mankind desired. Some planetary governments and the Federation retained FTL cruisers for military and police use, as did anyone, such as Monk, who wished to move about the galaxy without passing through the ubiquitous transfer portals.
Cheap power and transfer technology spelled the end of most governments below the planetary level. Countries ceased to be anything more than convenient geographical labels. It proved impossible to keep unhappy people away from transfer booths. Their government might know of such departures but lacked any ability to reach out and pull them back. Humanity had ultimate elbow room. The population of Earth fell to less than a billion souls and stabilized. In the warrens of countless moons and moonlets, in the tunnels of planets whose surfaces were uninhabitable and on those few worlds where humans might live above ground, people began to make homes and to create cultures.
There was conflict. If for no other reason than to control aggression, or to focus it, new sorts of governments came into being. A loose Federation had evolved by the time Monk made his first hit. Police forces were once again tracking down criminals. Human Space became dangerous for those who ignored agreed-upon standards of conduct. Killing a person, outside of defined situations, was outlawed. Because humans were spread thin, some police officers were authorized to operate in unusual ways. Monk learned his trade and functioned in this stewpot. He was often hunted and on several occasions, reported as killed.
(stand by for further installments -- barf bags at the ready!)
The following is sort of a SciFi, police procedural, character assassinating spoof. SPACE DOGS
JR Hume
Call him Monk. His real name is buried forever in an obscure northern settlement on Earth. He is without ambition, in the usual sense. At no time has he ever worked to be the best at anything, but instead practiced peculiar skills until they became natural, an integral part of his physical and mental makeup. He has the uncanny ability to speak, move and act without attracting undue attention. Women, in particular, seldom notice him.
Many aspire to be Master Assassins â “ to be known far and wide as perfect killers. Some achieve that goal and become useless â “ or dead â “ uselessness taken to the ultimate degree. Monk chooses his own targets and thus, his employers, always without personal contact. He receives payment in advance, obviating subsequent dealings with clients. In the vastness of human space there are always plenty of targets. Monk suspects he will never run short of people who need killing â “ and clients willing to pay for a reliable killer.
He was born at the end of the Second Diaspora, when governments had begun to adjust to their new situation by forming the Federation. Recordkeeping, along with many other human activities, had lapsed with the advent of teleportation technology. What good are labels when the labeled can step through the nearest transfer booth and cross into the obscurity of the solar system and from there, the galaxy? But the business of humanity requires order. Federation troops and cops are establishing that order where they can, though the rule of law is still thin in the human cosmos.
Monk's only regular companions are his business manager, Mr. Korus â “ a man maimed in a transfer-box accident â “ and Redeye â “ wannabe assassin and sidekick of sorts.
The Assassin
Transit Point Bog-2
Gandalf IV, Monk's personal FTL cruiser, dropped into normal space at the edge of the Bog System. Passive surveillance arrays at full alert, Gandalf coasted toward the yellow-white primary. Monk sat alone on the bridge, watching the displays. He was always to be found there at such times, clad in full space armor, even though ship comp was programmed to detect and react to any conceivable threat.
A slight squelching noise broke the silence. Monk didn't stir. Mr. Korus flopped across the deck, a misshapen, mucous-dripping lump. A small cleaner-bot rolled along behind, sopping up the slime. The air came alive with a vile stench.
â Å“Thought â “ you be â “ here,â ? gurgled Mr. Korus. â Å“Waste â “ of time.â ? He spoke in a series of bubbling gasps.
â Å“Probably.â ? Monk stared into the void. Korus had been his business manager for many years, but he still found it difficult to look at the thing created in the t-box accident. There was nothing man-shaped in that pile of guts and odd appendages. His natural good manners forced him to keep his visor open, despite the stench. He wished Korus would allow the medics to edit his form back to something approaching humanity. Even just getting rid of the smell would be a vast improvement. It was an old argument.
â Å“Why buy â “ detection â “ gear and tactical comp, then â “ spend time â “ monitoring?â ?
â Å“I await the inconceivable,â ? murmured Monk.
Korus emitted a bubbling that might have been laughter. â Å“A threat â “ beyond comp â “ be fatal.â ?
â Å“Not necessarily. If comp failed to respond, I would panic and initiate random actions. It's a tactic that has served humanity for millennia.â ?
â Å“Ranâ â€d m action?â ? Korus gurgled his might-be laughter again. â Å“Death â “ nine times of ten.â ?
â Å“In the face of certain death, a long chance is better than none.â ?
â Å“A maxim? You â “ make it up?â ?
â Å“No.â ? Monk laughed. â Å“I imagine an early human blundering into the lair of a cave bear and finding the owner at home. He screams, flings his spear and takes to his heels. Sometimes, he would survive.â ?
â Å“You beâ â€lieve this scenâ â€ario?â ?
â Å“Something like it, at least. Perhaps the scream made the bear pause or the spear pierced an eye socket and sank into the beast's brain. Or, my ancestor was quick on his feet.â ? Monk shrugged. â Å“The survivors improved the genetic makeup of the race.â ?
â Å“Inâ â€teresting.â ? Korus began to slither and slop his way aft. â Å“Explore cave â “ keep tight grip â “ on spear.â ? His gurgled laugh and the cleaner-bot's cluck-slurp faded down the passage.
Monk's ear piece clicked. â Å“Cripes, boss, is da blob on da bridge?â ? It was Redeye. He normally kept to the engine room when Korus was aboard. The merest sight or scent of their business manager would kill his appetite and keep him away from his porn collection for days.
â Å“He's back in his cabin,â ? said Monk. â Å“You coming up?â ?
â Å“Maybe. Anything to see?â ?
â Å“Nothing. When comp completes a security sweep, we'll be moving in-system.â ?
â Å“I'll stay put, boss. Gimme a blast if ya need me.â ? Redeye loved everything about gangsters, as depicted in old 2D picture shows. So far, it hadn't been a problem.
Impulse engines cut in, vibrating the ship. Comp reported in its machine-harsh voice. â Å“Captain, security sweep complete. Inbound to Calamity Port. Time enroute: three hours, fifteen minutes. Local arrival time: 1330 hours.â ? No sultry female comp voice for Monk. He thought a machine ought to sound like a machine. Besides, a woman speaking soft words in his ear made him horny.
â Å“Okay, Comp. Use ship ID number seven. Make normal reports.â ?
â Å“ID number seven, aye-aye.â ? The flat panel sign above the aft passage changed from Gandalf to Bobtail Nag. It was the only place on the ship where a name was displayed. Monk never told anyone or anything what ID he intended to use until absolutely necessary. Comp was probably trustworthy, but Monk figured it was foolish to assume a semi-sentient machine couldn't be bribed.
The Ranger
Federation Ranger Central HQ
Asteroid â Å“Flatfootâ ?, orbiting Sol somewhere beyond Mars
Admin Bobbit shoved Ghost's door open. â Å“Monk has disappeared from his usual haunts.â ?
The diminutive Ranger keyed a code word into his comp. Admin's information was verified in seconds. Ghost swore a vile oath in his native tongue, then repeated himself in plain FedSpeak. Admin Bobbit grimaced â “ as if things hadn't gone well with his last bowel movement.
â Å“What does Intelligence have to say?â ? asked Ghost. He already knew the answer.
â Å“Nothing. Monk took his own ship. You know we don't have tracking capability much beyond Jupiter.â ? Admin unwrapped a grinklefruit lollipop and popped it in his mouth. â Å“It's as if he vaporized into thin air.â ?
Ghost slumped in his chair. â Å“There's no air out here,â ? he said to Admin's retreating back. â Å“He vaporized when the ship entered hyper-space.â ? If Bobbit heard, he gave no sign.
Mockingly dubbed 'Space Rangers' or 'Space Cowboys', Federation Rangers were the only police force authorized to operate in all areas of known space, except Earth. That prohibition had it's origin in the earliest off-Earth police forces and was an ironbound fact in folk tales and legend, although known to be breached in practice.
Ghost became a Ranger at age 25, after a stint in the Federation Marines and upon the completion of three years at Ranger Academy. He had just turned 30 when Monk first came into his life. He was now 35 and had never managed to hang anything on the Assassin â “ not even a loitering-with-intent charge.
Rangers worked in a team consisting of two humans and two androids. Only the human team members were authorized to use deadly force on other humans, although the situational programming of police droids was known to be fluid and adaptable. Most people assumed the droids could respond to deadly force with deadly force. Some few survivors had reason to know the fact of it.
Ranger Aguilus stepped into the office and shut the door. â Å“Admin giving you odds on tonight's game?â ?
â Å“Monk's left Earth. He's going to make another hit.â ?
â Å“Merde!â ? Aguilus sagged into a chair. â Å“Any ideas on where?â ?
â Å“Sure,â ? said Ghost, with a vague gesture. â Å“Out there. Somewhere in known space a murderous, thieving creep is going to get whacked. Who and where? I don't know.â ?
â Å“Tell me again why we care about catching Monk.â ?
Aguilus was a native of Appia, third planet in the Vestal System. He was a year out of Ranger Academy, better known as 'Ranger Rat's School for Boys' among those who had become Rangers without benefit of academy.
Ghost liked Aguilus, but couldn't help feeling somewhat jealous at the man's physical attributes. Tall, broad and handsome, women lusted after Aguilus on sight. Fortunately for lesser males, these same women soon tired of his gastric problem. Delicate little squeakers bubbled out of him at irregular intervals and spread with tsunami swiftness, inflicting temporary blindness and olfactory shock. Medics couldn't clear up his condition. Any room he stayed in for more than a week had to be fumigated and painted. He drew field assignments with astonishing regularity. For now he was Ghost's partner.
Aguilus bubbled ominously. â Å“Tell me again why we want to catch Monk.â ?
â Å“Killing people is against the law,â ? said Ghost, sliding his chair back in a casual manner. â Å“Even if their demise is more like a public service.â ? He made a futile gesture. â Å“We have to prevent vigilante justice. Mob rule. All that crap. It doesn't matter. Go collect the droids. Meet me at the ship.â ?
After his partner left, Ghost managed to hold out for another fifteen seconds, then bolted from the office. â Å“Gah!â ? he gasped, from a position five meters into the main area. He glanced around. The only other person present was the statuesque blonde from Test Developments. She was bashing at the heavy, blaster-resistant glass security door. â Å“Let me out, you spawn of deformed snarks!â ? Her snark-spawn alliteration was directed at a gaggle of people holding the door shut. The blonde scowled at Ghost. â Å“You could have at least shut your door!â ?
â Å“Sorry,â ? muttered Ghost as he crept back toward his office. A steady rain of paint particles drifted down from the ceiling and swirled in slow, lazy circles above his desk. He smiled at the Test Developments lady. â Å“I think the worst is over.â ?
She sagged against the still-closed security door. â Å“I'll have to recycle this whole damn outfit.â ?
Ghost lurked inside his office door for several minutes, watching the blonde. She made no move to recycle her garments. Whining with frustration he retrieved his regulation over-and-under blaster/grenade launcher and his non-regulation backup piece â “ a replica Colt M1911A pistol.
The blaster went on his hip, the slug gun into a shoulder holster. He tucked a sturdy knife into his right boot and slid two tubes of mini-grenades into the other boot. A combination stylus and laser designator fit into a pocket on his left sleeve. He was tempted by a pocket protector/mini-nuke, but elected to leave it behind. The ability to utterly vaporize a medium-sized building just wasn't advantage enough to offset the geeky appearance of the pocket protector.
Aguilus waited at the entrance hatch. He was already wearing space armor, including helmet, although the faceplate was open. Their agreement was that Aguilus never, ever removed his armor when aboard ship. Suit filters recycled his air and water, preventing the contamination of everything and everyone. A service bot changed the suit filters often. Used filters went straight into the fusion chambers â “ regulations be damned!
Behind Aguilus stood the other members of Team Zed, a pair of ex-military androids. Officially known as Z-Alpha and Z-Bravo, Ghost had named them Bossi and Slim, for reasons known only to himself. Both were equipped with the lightweight armor. Bossi's armor was dark blue with a set of red and yellow flames starting at his broad brow and snaking down his back. Slim's rig was regulation non-reflective black with no adornment except on his right shoulder, where he had painted a yellow shield with black horse rampant, reflecting his service in a Federation armored unit prior to joining the Rangers.
Military androids, after completing thirty years compulsory service, could sign on as police droids. They were known as 'proids' in polite company, 'futzing proids' in less elevated circles. Proids were equipped with tri-barrel blasters, grenades, knuckles of steel and a rotten attitude.
Bossi snapped to attention and saluted. â Å“It's the Captain!â ? he bleeped. â Å“Atten'hut!â ? Ghost winced at the volume. Bossi's voice sounded like a starship warning klaxon. Ranger techs had thus far failed to locate the difficulty.
Ghost waved off the salute. â Å“Stow the military formality, Bossi. And wind your voice volume down to minimum.â ?
â Å“Aye-aye, Captain,â ? squeaked Bossi.
Aguilus jerked a thumb at the other droid. â Å“Slim says he has indications of fusion bottle over-pressure. Wants to go on sick call.â ?
Slim wasn't really a malingerer. He had the hots for one of the female-pattern nurse-droids down at the maintenance facility. Ghost shook his head and waved his crew toward the entry hatch. â Å“Forget it, Slim. She'll still be there when we come back. Let's get aboard.â ?
â Å“Dang it, Captain!â ? moaned Slim. â Å“We have a date tonight! I think she's about to agree to a servo-meld.â ?
â Å“She's leading you on,â ? said Aguilus. â Å“Word is, she's been melding with a welder-droid over in the shipyard. He's supposed to be a hot stick.â ? The other three groaned. Aguilus grinned. â Å“Okay â “ I made up that last part. But the lady really is playing Slim for a sucker.â ?
Slim's shoulders slumped. The red glow in his vision receptors faded to pink. He turned away and shuffled through the hatch. Bossi followed.
â Å“Did you have to break it to him like that?â ? asked Ghost. â Å“Now he's gonna spend the entire trip whining about being jilted.â ?
â Å“Jilted? Merde! An old word.â ? Aguilus leaned against the hatch frame. â Å“Fragged. That's what droids call it. Slim will be okay. I'll run a psych program on him. Our med-cube has one called, Freud for Gearheads.â ? He burst out laughing.
Ghost chuckled and shoved his partner through the hatch. â Å“Get inside, you idiot!â ? He sniffed. â Å“And check the neck seals on your suit.â ?
Federation
The gravity drive started the First Diaspora. Both power unit and drive, it lifted humans out to the Moon, to Mars and to all the smaller moons and moonlets circling Sol. First they mined and smelted. Then they turned the vast caverns into living areas. The Moon was honeycombed, Mars tunneled, asteroids hollowed out. People took themselves and their intelligent machines to the farthest reaches of livable space. Governments continued to function in the old ways. Old Earth held sway until faster-than-light technology appeared.
FTL drives made their brief appearance, flourished and died. In Monk's time FTL robotic cruisers continued to be launched into the unknown, designed to plant transfer stations wherever mankind desired. Some planetary governments and the Federation retained FTL cruisers for military and police use, as did anyone, such as Monk, who wished to move about the galaxy without passing through the ubiquitous transfer portals.
Cheap power and transfer technology spelled the end of most governments below the planetary level. Countries ceased to be anything more than convenient geographical labels. It proved impossible to keep unhappy people away from transfer booths. Their government might know of such departures but lacked any ability to reach out and pull them back. Humanity had ultimate elbow room. The population of Earth fell to less than a billion souls and stabilized. In the warrens of countless moons and moonlets, in the tunnels of planets whose surfaces were uninhabitable and on those few worlds where humans might live above ground, people began to make homes and to create cultures.
There was conflict. If for no other reason than to control aggression, or to focus it, new sorts of governments came into being. A loose Federation had evolved by the time Monk made his first hit. Police forces were once again tracking down criminals. Human Space became dangerous for those who ignored agreed-upon standards of conduct. Killing a person, outside of defined situations, was outlawed. Because humans were spread thin, some police officers were authorized to operate in unusual ways. Monk learned his trade and functioned in this stewpot. He was often hunted and on several occasions, reported as killed.
(stand by for further installments -- barf bags at the ready!)
