Sky Pirates (fiction)

[jrhume]

Sky Pirates
JR Hume

In the House of Brin

Aspirant Monk minced through the sparse crowd of minions and underlings.  He wore the mottled puce robe and fresh crown of thorns required of aspirants.  Reaching the exclusion zone surrounding the throne, he halted before one of the hulking guards and performed a careful lackey-to-henchman bow.  â Å“Aspirant Monk to see Her Awful Majesty, the Supreme High Mucky-muck, Lord of the Local Terrain, Commander of the Rapine Hordes . . . uh . . .â ?

â Å“Authorized Retailer,â ? whispered the guard.

â Å“. . . ah . . . yeah . . . Authorized Retailer, the most Reverend Boss Brin.â ?

The guard nodded.  â Å“Not bad, Monk.  The proper address for today is 'Dread Lord'.â ?

â Å“She really likes that one doesn't she?â ?  Monk groaned as he went to his knees and began crawling toward the throne, a distance of some fifty feet.

Her Ultra Suede recliner set on massage, Boss Brin watched Monk slither forward.  â Å“Stand up, Aspirant!â ? she boomed, when that unfortunate managed to touch the three-foot tall marble base upon which the throne rested.  â Å“What have you to report, lackey?â ?

â Å“Bad news -- uh -- Dread Lord.â ?  Monk cringed, trying not to glance at Most Congenial Head Chopper Infanteer, standing off to one side.

Brin frowned.  â Å“It's early in the day for bad news, Aspirant.â ?  Chopper Infanteer made a noise that might have been a laugh, swished his long black cloak and stepped forward in anticipation of a bit of business.  Unfortunately, he trod on said cloak and crashed to the floor, ruining the overall effect.  Guards leaped aside as his oversized axe clattered in their direction.  Snowpea, the Polish Princess, laughed immoderately from her position atop the piano.  Boss Brin glared around, silencing all levity and ribald comment.  Infanteer, now back on his feet, rearranged the offending cloak, retrieved his axe and slunk away.

â Å“I think,â ? said Brin, â Å“that we'll listen to the news before deciding on punishment.â ?  She smiled down on Monk.  â Å“Speak, lackey!â ?

â Å“Dread Lord, we have received word that the Terra Nova pirates are ravaging shipping inside the Off-Limits area.â ?

â Å“Pirates!  They dare attack my ships!  Didn't they see our 'Pirates Keep Out' buoys?â ?

â Å“Sailed right past 'em, Dread Lord.â ?

â Å“Surely our ships warned them off!â ?

â Å“Most assuredly.  Nasty-grams.  Notices of extreme displeasure.  Nothing impressed 'em.â ?

Brin shrugged.  â Å“Well, then my frigate captains blew them out of the water.  No big loss.â ?

â Å“Wrong, Dread Lord.  Our frigate captains were already in the water.  Both escorts were sunk by pirate aircraft.  One huge bomber, from the sketchy accounts we received.â ?  Monk stepped back, wary of Chopper Infanteer.

â Å“Dang and blast!â ? exclaimed Brin.  â Å“Sky pirates!  What kind of bomber?â ?

Monk held up a copy of 'Bomber Identification for Idiots'.  â Å“From the description it can only be a Krupp-Moraine Monster Masher.  Nothing else fits.â ?

â Å“A Monster Masher?  Krupp-Moraine is really selling them?â ?

â Å“Evidently so,â ? replied Monk.  â Å“They need cash.â ?

â Å“Double blast!  Now we'll have to go teach those pirate types a lesson!â ?  Brin pounded the arm of her recliner.  â Å“I planned on a vacation to Disney World in a few days!â ?

Chief Soothsayer Mahareesh DanJanou raised his head, gave the assembled throng a bleary-eyed look, mumbled something unintelligible, then went back to sleep.  â Å“What'd he say?â ? asked Boss Brin.  No one replied.  DanJanou's remarks were often portentous and climactic, but seldom understandable.

â Å“Sire -- ah, Dread Lord,â ? called Duke Baker, head toady of the Baker gang.  â Å“Our fighters can't fly all the way to Terra Nova, blow the pirates to bloody gobbets and return.  Shall I round up some volunteers for suicide missions?â ?

Boss Brin considered Baker's proposal.  â Å“No.  We got rid of all my in-laws on the last one.  Besides, we're short of planes.â ?

Monk blanched.  â Å“Then that means . . .â ?

Baker gulped and began sidling back into the thinning crowd.  â Å“You can't mean . . .â ?

â Å“Yes,â ? replied Boss Brin, hopping down from her throne.  â Å“We'll take the Big Plane.â ?

â Å“The Big Plane?â ? gasped Baker.  â Å“But it takes a hundred slaves to roll it out of the hangar!â ?

Monk sank to his knees.  â Å“The Big Plane?  Gassing it up takes all the fuel in the kingdom!â ?

â Å“Oh, joy!â ? exclaimed Snowpea, sliding off the piano.  â Å“We're taking the Big Plane!â ?

Boss Brin stood up and thundered.  â Å“I declare a holiday!  No one will have gas to go to work anyway.  Let's get cracking!  Where's my crew chief?â ?

â Å“Old Guy is shacked up out at the Airport Inn with a tall blonde,â ? mumbled Monk.  â Å“The one he met at the last spontaneous riot celebrating your benevolent rule, Dread Lord.â ?

â Å“Outstanding!â ? exclaimed Brin.  â Å“He's right where we want him!â ?  She struck a dramatic pose.  â Å“Kick the tires and light the fire!  A pirate in every pot!â ?

â Å“Can I stay behind and look after the garden?â ? whined Monk.

â Å“Aspirant!  I'm surprised!  Do you want to miss all the fun!  We're going pirate hunting!â ?

â Å“Ah, yes, Dread Lord.  I've been thinking of taking up vegetables â “ or needlepoint.â ?

Boss Brin gave Monk a hearty bash on the shoulder, eliciting a pained whine.  â Å“Nonsense!  We're off to maim and kill pirates!  Smash their heads!  Kick their shins!â ?

Thus, the gang pounded off toward the airport, singing lusty songs about booze, old cars, faithful dogs, trains in the rain, and a few bitter lines about sweethearts and a certain Jody character.  A good time was had by all.

Monk began to get into the spirit of things.  He trudged along behind, thinking of women, but reciting lines from 'The Rise and Fall of the Romulan Empire', that great old classic.

Baker took a side trip to his fortified compound, intending to designate a few offspring as cannon fodder.  The old homestead had been getting a bit crowded.  His Number One Henchman, Fusilier, waited at the compound gate.  â Å“Ah, Fusilier!â ? crowed Baker.  â Å“It's official!  We're off to war!  There are pirates to be folded, spindled and mutilated!  Beer!  Foreign women!  Explosives!  Revenge!  Did I mention women?  It's all arranged!â ?

Fusilier scampered off to collect a goodly supply of rifles, handguns, knives, hockey sticks, hand grenades, handy wipes, plastic explosives, tank traps, man traps, mustard gas, mustard plasters and all the other paraphernalia needed for a fun-loving punitive expedition.

Baker strolled into the compound under the huge billboard topping the gate.  'Baker's Summer Camp' it announced in large, neon letters.  'Hunting, fishing, and poaching expeditions our specialty.  Inquire within.'  A single hand-lettered sign in one corner warned, 'Post No Bills!'

Snowpea tugged the Chief Soothsayer along, muttering.  â Å“Dang it, Mahareesh!  I can't hear what they're singing anymore!  That one about the lady in red sounded scandalous.  It's a good thing I'm your pal or I'd just leave you to wander along on your own.â ?  DanJanou smiled an empty smile and said nothing.  â Å“There's Baker,â ? said Snowpea,  â Å“Collecting some of his thugs and goons.  He'll probably bring along some of the men, too.â ?

â Å“Beer,â ? mumbled DanJanou.

â Å“No beer!  Not until we get you loaded into the Big Plane.â ?

â Å“Big Plane,â ? agreed DanJanou.  â Å“Beer is good for regularity,â ? he added with philosophical candor.

â Å“Regular, schmegular,â ? intoned Snowpea.  â Å“Pick up your feet.  We're going to be late!â ?

â Å“Beer,â ? moaned DanJanou.



The Big Plane

Gunnar, cub reporter for the Metropolis Tattler, gazed in awe at the huge aircraft.  â Å“Wow!â ? he exclaimed, mouth agape.  â Å“How big is that thing!â ?

Muskrat, Chief Spin Toady, smiled a suave smile.  â Å“Three hundred feet, wingtip to wingtip.â ?

â Å“Three hundred feet!  What a monster!â ?  Remembering his purpose, Gunnar whipped out a notebook.  â Å“I gotta get this down!  Can I take some pictures?â ?

â Å“No pictures,â ? warned Muskrat.  â Å“I'll supply you with some unclassified prints.â ?

â Å“Okay, well, I guess that'll have to do.â ?  Gunnar was disappointed.  His editor wasn't going to be satisfied with sanitized prints and a mere story -- unless it was a damn good story.  He set his jaw.  Damned if he wouldn't write the best article of the year!  Handing Muskrat a crisp new twenty, he said, â Å“Tell me everything.â ?

Sneering, Muskrat tucked the bill into his coat pocket.  â Å“You'll have to do better than that if you want the REAL story.â ?

Poorer by a cool hundred smackers and one pair of snazzy sneakers, Gunnar followed Muskrat on a walk around the huge bomber.  Crushed gravel gnawed at his bare feet.

Muskrat carried his new shoes under one arm and gestured grandly with the other.  â Å“Wing span of three hundred feet.  Powered by two big Yamashita diesel-electrics built into the wing roots on either side of the main cabin.  The power units feed electricity to eight Dynamo motors with four-bladed props, set in a pusher configuration.  That allows the wing to be cleaner.â ?

â Å“Is that one of those airâ “oâ “dynâ “o-mite thingmies?â ?  asked Gunnar.

â Å“Aer-o-dy-nam-ic,â ? replied Muskrat, as if to a child.

â Å“Yeah, one of those scientific thingmies.â ?

â Å“I don't know for sure.â ?  Muskrat peered up at the wing.  â Å“But the Boss likes a smooth, uncluttered wing.  So that's what he's got.  Maybe it keeps the dusting to a minimum.â ?

Gunnar halted, both to give his sore feet a break and to get a good look at the center part of the craft.  â Å“Is that where the driver sits?â ?

â Å“Yeah.â ?  Muskrat snickered.  â Å“That's the driver's position.â ?  Gunnar scribbled some notes.

â Å“All the crewmembers work in the center section,â ? continued Muskrat.  â Å“Except for the defensive fighter pilots.â ?  He pointed at the pylons under each wing.  â Å“The little fighters take off separately and hook up with the bomber.  Then the pilots crawl through access tubes which take them into the power cells.  They can step right into the center cabin from there.â ?

â Å“What are those roundy windows in the front of the -- what did you call them?  Power cells?â ?

â Å“Those blisters are gunner positions.  One in the front of the power cell and one in back.  Both sides.  The gunners have aiming gadgets that control the guns in the little turrets you see all over the fuselage and wings.â ?

Gunnar frowned.  â Å“You mean the gunners can control whichever turret can bear on an attacker?  A split-phase, multi-granular, simultaneous input/output, digital/analog, humpty-dink, electro-hydraulic semi-automatic pointing mechanism?â ?

â Å“Uh -- yeah.  Something like that.â ?  Muskrat squinted up at the nearest blister, absently picking his nose.  â Å“I get lost in all that scientific hooter-tooter stuff.  You wanna look at the back end?â ?

The two made their way under the huge wing and past a monstrous four-wheel gear assembly, Muskrat striding with confidence, Gunnar stepping soft on the sharp gravel.

â Å“Right,â ? said Muskrat when Gunnar caught up.  â Å“As you can see, a short tail-section extends back from the landing gear housing on each side.  The tail fins help with stability -- whatever that might be.â ?

Gunnar nodded as if he understood.  â Å“Another one of them technical thingmies.â ?

â Å“Probably.  You seen enough?â ?  Muskrat glanced at his watch.  He seemed anxious.

â Å“Sure.  I guess.  Where did you learn all this stuff anyhow?â ?

â Å“From this.â ?  Muskrat handed over a glossy, multi-page product flyer.  He checked the time again.  â Å“Well, I gotta run.â ?

â Å“But . . .â ?  Gunnar flipped pages in the brochure, frowning.

Muskrat shouted back over his shoulder.  â Å“I'd get out of the area if I were you.  Unless you plan on going along!â ?

Gunnar stood rooted, thoroughly confused.  These damned city folks were always mixing him up.  It was tough to think when the situation had so many angles.  Not like home.  He sighed, recalling his family's crude hut on the shores of Hudson's Bay.  Back there it was simple.  Nothing complex.  Just bad weather and occasional starvation.

He was still trying to decide what to do next when a Hulking Guard planted a beefy hand on his shoulder.  â Å“Come on, buddy!  You've been drafted!  We need another wiper.â ?

Gunnar struggled, but couldn't escape.  â Å“A wiper?  I'm a reporter.  What does a wiper do?â ?

â Å“Wipes things,â ? explained the guard.

â Å“But I'm a Canadian citizen,â ? whined Gunnar.  â Å“You can't draft me!â ?

â Å“Jeez!â ? rumbled the guard.  â Å“I'm sorry about that.  Well, don't worry, I won't tell no one.â ?  He thrust the weakly resisting Gunnar up a stairway leading into the belly of the Big Plane.  â Å“Report to the engineer in the left power cell.  He'll show you the ropes.  Cleaning the engine and spit shining the exhaust manifolds is part of the job.â ?  The guard paused.  â Å“You ain't one of them anarchists are you?â ?

â Å“Maybe I am and maybe I ain't,â ? exclaimed Gunnar, emboldened for no good reason.

â Å“Well, if you are an anarchist, I'll take you off the plane . . .â ?  Gunnar brightened and started to claim anarchy-hood.  â Å“. . . and shoot you.â ?

â Å“Ah -- ha-ha-ha -- no, I'm not an anarchist.  That's a different part of Canada.â ?

Hulking Guard nodded.  â Å“I was pretty sure of it.â ?


(tbc)

 

[Danjanou]

Beer is good for all sorts of ailments there JR. :blotto:

Waiting for the next installment.

 

[Fishbone Jones]

Ohh, oh is this where Che gets written in as the Pirate captain? Snivelling little waif! ;D

 

[jrhume]

Not only does Che get written into the tale -- he gets to speak with an accent. 

******************************************

Che's Rampaging Renegades

Ace pilot and Supreme Despot Che throttled back and trimmed the huge Krupp-Daimler bomber for cruise.  He motioned for Dorosh, co-pilot and all-purpose Lackey, to take over the controls, then settled back in his rhino-hide seat and laughed.  Everyone else in the cockpit relaxed.  It looked like no one was going to die in the next few minutes.

â Å“Ah,â ? sighed Che.  The cockpit was very quiet.  He liked to talk in a low, threatening voice at times, did the Supreme Despot.  The aircraft specifications had quite specifically specified QUIET!  â Å“Herr Bossi,â ? he murmured, â Å“Vat about a zeegar?â ?

Chief Engineer Bossi, well-trained boot licker that he was, hesitated only a milli-second before proffering a cigar and a gold lighter.  He wasted not so much as a glance at the garish 'NO SMOKING' placard bolted to the instrument panel.  â Å“Of course, sir.  Try my lighter.  I got it from a Polish Princess in Norway -- on that last visit to my masseuse in Oslo.â ?

Che chuckled.  â Å“And vat else did you get vrom ze Polish Princess?  A strudel or two?â ?  The other crewmembers snickered on cue.

â Å“Ah . . .â ?  Bossi hung his head.  â Å“Just the lighter -- and directions to the train station.â ?

Che turned the lighter.  â Å“She chust handed you ze gold lighter?â ?

Bossi was sweating now.  Last week Che had keelhauled a man for 'conduct becoming'.  It didn't pay to seem too much like a pansy.  He shrugged, belched and tried to sound positive and upbeat, in a leering, pirate-like way.  â Å“She was in a hurry.  My lighter was empty.  She tossed that one to me and said, 'Keep it!  I had it a moment ago from an drunken pirate!'.  Then she was gone.â ?

Dorosh squinted at the lighter, still in Che's hand.  â Å“Hey!â ? he exclaimed.  â Å“That's mine!â ?

Bossi relaxed.  Anything involving a fight was safe ground.  He glared at Dorosh and stuck out his jaw.  â Å“Says who?â ?

â Å“Says me!â ? shouted Dorosh, using the same truculent glare Bossi had employed.

Bossi switched to a belligerent sneer.  â Å“What you gonna do about it?â ?

â Å“Gimme my lighter or I'll beat the snot out of you and take it anyway!â ? screeched Dorosh, incensed at the unprovoked belligerent sneer.

â Å“You and whose army!â ? shouted Bossi.

Che held up a hand, silencing the ritual exchange of vicious threats.  â Å“Dorosh.  You are zupposed to be flying.  Bossi.  Ze engines are out of zynch.â ?

Deathlike silence gripped the cockpit.  Dorosh locked his eyes on the horizon and pretended have his hands full flying the bomber even though everyone knew full well he had engaged the auto-pilot not a minute before.  Bossi hunched over the throttles and verniers, making microscopic adjustments.  A single bead of sweat rolled off his nose and crashed to the deck.  He wondered if he'd recognize anyone when he arrived in Hell.

At that moment, Commo Clod Franko stepped from the radio room.  â Å“Uh . . .â ?  He glanced around the silent cockpit and twitched.  Such silences often ended with the death or maiming of the first idiot to make a sound.  â Å“Uh . . ,â ? he repeated, then decided it would be best to put a bold face on things.  â Å“S-supreme D-despot, sir.  I have a c-coded message.â ? 

â Å“Read it, Clod,â ? ordered Che, toying with his Krupp-Webley .50-80 revolver.

â Å“Ah -- yes, sir.â ?  Franko squinted at the message flimsy.  â Å“It -- well, I'll just r-read it as you s-say.â ?  His throat was dry as the Sahara.  â Å“The black d-dog urinates at n-noon.  Your w-waders are f-full of eels.â ?  Almost in tears, Franko waved the flimsy.  â Å“That's w-what it s-says,â ? he squeaked.

Dorosh hunched over the controls, expecting a deafening blast any second.  Bossi tried to shrink even smaller than his four feet, nine inches.  Che liked to use shot shells in the Krupp-Webley, the better to avoid marring the cockpit's shiny mahogany trim. 

Stuffing the huge revolver away, Tyrannical Despot Che cackled with glee.  The three blood-thirsty pirates looked on in amazement.  Franko remembered to breathe.  He glanced at the message again.  It didn't seem possible that he was still alive and un-wounded.

â Å“Call ze navigator!â ? ordered Che.  Franko leapt to obey.  It was safer in the radio room.

Navigator Padraig, disparagingly titled 'Magellan' by the other crewmembers, climbed up from his cubby in the belly of the bomber and presented himself to the Despot. 

â Å“Vat is our position?â ? inquired Che in silky tones.

Padraig stammered.  He gulped and wet his pants.  He made a vague hand movement and mumbled.  Franko crouched just inside the radio room, watching.  He had always wanted to be Navigator.  It looked like the position might be open soon.

â Å“Neffer mind,â ? rasped Che.  â Å“I know vhere ve are.  Go back to your position and ready your guns.  Tell ze ozzer gunners!  Alert ze Gnat fighter pilots!  Ve vill zoon be engaging zat fool Brin and her band of malignant, dwarfish, snot-eating chowder heads!â ?

â Å“Wow!â ? exclaimed Dorosh.  â Å“The Big Plane is coming?  Just like we -- you planned?â ?

â Å“Ja,â ? murmured Che, turning his basilisk gaze on the co-pilot.  â Å“Vere you zinking they vouldn't take ze bait?  Perhaps you believed zey vouldn't be fooled by my cunningk plan?â ?

â Å“Ah -- no, your grace.â ?  Dorosh hastened to assure his master and despot.  â Å“I was just afraid Brin wouldn't be -- um, smart enough to organize her people and -- uh, manage to respond as your brilliant plan intended.â ?  He was sweating like the proverbial pig by the time he got it all out.  â Å“Yeah,â ? he mumbled, â Å“that's it.  That's what I thought.â ?  Franko danged and blasted under his breath.  Turning to one side he wrote down the salient points of Dorosh's response for possible adaptation into his own repertoire.

Padraig realized he had been dismissed and hurried back to his position, falling down the ladder and nearly bashing his brains out in the process.  Franko slunk back to his radios, ambitions thwarted again.

â Å“Take us vest,â ? ordered Che.  â Å“Ve'll try to interzept from an optimal altitude.â ?  Dorosh and Bossi exchanged glances and shrugs.  Neither one had the Latin to translate 'optimal'.  Bossi devoutly hoped the Despot wouldn't quiz him regarding the exact meaning of 'to intercept' in that manner.  His last intercept had involved snatching a fresh beer off a passing tray in the Pirate's Den.  This didn't sound like the same thing.  Dorosh wondered what broiled or baked optimal tasted like and if it was gauche to use a dinner fork in eating one.  He squirmed in his seat, remembering the pickle fork incident.

Aft of the cockpit, Pirate Pilot 3rd Class Inch and Pilot Assignee Lance finished getting into  their gear.  Lance whined about his lack of training, the unfairness of the Despot, the beer at the Pirate's Den, the tightness of his flying suit, and his poor general health.  Inch growled, â Å“Shaddup!  Git to yer plane!â ? and hurried his wingman along with a boot.

Each pilot slid into a metal tube built into the wings.  They pulled themselves through the tube using a hand line while lying on a cloth pad.  Their Fairey-Focker Gnat fighters were slung between the first and second Dynamo on each side.  It was noisy in the tube.  Inch sang filthy songs as he slid along.  Lance sniveled and felt sorry for himself.

Back in the cockpit, Che nodded to Bossi.  â Å“Make sure the tail gunner is awake.  If Brin brings her GeeBee-Boeing MicroBat Coast Defense Fighters along, we might see a little action.â ?

â Å“Jeez, Boss, you think they'll find anyone fool enough to fly those things?â ?

Che pointed to the Gnats hanging under the Monster Masher's wings.  â Å“Ve did.â ?


(tbc)

 

[Lance Wiebe]

Welcome back, Old Guy!

Can't wait for the rest!

 

[winchable]

Sweet,
I'm a freakin pirate!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A bad ass one too!!

 

[jrhume]

Che's talents are finally recognized.    :

********************************************

Pustule and Wiper

Snowpea stepped into the cockpit, Henchman Fusilier close at her heels.  Fusilier paused to slam the door shut and let out an explosive breath.  Both were green about the gills.

Boss Brin turned in her elevated Ace Pilot seat and bent a disapproving stare at the two fighter pilots.  â Å“What's the problem?â ? she asked Snowpea.  â Å“Get tired of roosting on the piano?â ?

She shook her head.  â Å“No, Dread Lord!  I love the piano!  It's just -- oh, yuck!â ?

â Å“Chopper got airsick,â ? explained Fusilier.  â Å“All over the lounge.â ?

â Å“Yee gads!â ? exclaimed Snowpea.  â Å“That man must eat week-old skunk guts or something!â ?

â Å“Infanteer's diet is a state secret,â ? intoned Brin.  â Å“Specially formulated to enhance his foul mood and give him a steady grip on his axe.â ?

â Å“Well,â ? admitted Fusilier, â Å“I dragged him into the head and he managed a steady grip on the stainless steel throne.  Deathlike, I'd say.â ?

Snowpea, recovered now from her encounter with partially digested icky stuff, looked around the richly appointed cockpit with interest.  â Å“Nice setup you've got here, Dread Lord.  Fancier even than my Dad's last castle.â ?

Brin smiled.  She loved to show off her toys.  â Å“Genuine Moroccan leather,â ? she said, â Å“I had to pay Northrop-Piper dearly to get that installed.  All the woodwork is hand-rubbed teak.â ?

â Å“Hand-rubbed?â ? said Snowpea.  â Å“By vestal virgins, no doubt.â ?  She didn't crack a smile.  Fusilier snickered once before his sense of survival asserted itself.  Aspirant Monk, acting Flight Engineer and recently designated as Pustule, First Class, looked nervous and confused -- but that was normal for him.  Duke Baker, Co-pilot to the Tyrant, ignored the remark, being an old hand at court.

â Å“No,â ? replied Brin, not sure if Snowpea was dumb enough to make fun of her.  â Å“I couldn't find that many virgins.â ?

â Å“Where are we?â ? asked Snowpea, figuring she had trod close enough to the edge of disaster for one day.  The axeman might recover at any time.

Brin turned back to regard the passing clouds.  â Å“We crossed the coast about fifteen minutes ago.  Our ships are perhaps an hour to the east.â ?

â Å“Would you like to get an idea of where Che might be?â ? asked Snowpea.  â Å“I assume he's in the air by now.â ?

â Å“Almost certainly.  He's had time to refuel.â ?  Brin regarded Snowpea with interest.  â Å“I would very much like to know where he might be.â ?

Snowpea stepped between the pilot seats and twisted the vernier on the ADF.  A steady chirping noise issued from a speaker and the directional pointer stabilized in a direction just to the left of straight ahead.

â Å“What is the needle pointing at?â ? asked Brin.

â Å“A lighter.  A gold lighter.â ?  Everyone looked vacant.  Chuckling, Snowpea explained how she had stolen a lighter from a drunken pirate.  â Å“It was Dorosh, Che's co-pilot and general lackey,â ? she told them.  â Å“I planted the transmitter in the bottom and found an excuse to give it to that Flight Engineer and sawed-off runt-pirate . . . I forget his name.â ?

â Å“Sounds like Bossi,â ? mused Baker.  He frowned.  â Å“But wouldn't the battery be dead by now?â ?

â Å“It wasn't transmitting, silly!â ?  Snowpea laughed.  She held up a small box with an antenna on top.  â Å“I sent the activate signal a few minutes ago.â ?

Boss Brin took the signal device and examined it.  â Å“Ingenious.  You dreamed this up all by your little old self?â ?

â Å“Oh, mercy, no!â ? exclaimed Snowpea.  â Å“I don't know a phlogsiton from a magnetron from a jelly doughnut!  Old Guy got it for me from Spies-R-Us.â ?

â Å“Old Guy, eh?â ? rumbled Brin.  She glanced around.  â Å“Where is that old drunk?â ?

â Å“He stayed behind, sir,â ? said Monk, with a sly glance.  Getting even with Old Guy was his sole source of entertainment, regardless of how foolhardy such an undertaking could be.

â Å“Stayed behind!  To do what?â ?

â Å“I think he was too tired to fly,â ? explained Monk.  â Å“He's been spending a lot of time out at the Airport Inn.â ?  He smiled, certain the Old Bastard had gone too far this time.

Brin eyed the Pustule-designate with contempt.  â Å“I gave him the time off.â ?  She motioned to Baker.  â Å“Take her around in a slow left turn and roll out heading north.  The ADF has been holding steady.  Either Che's headed right for us or directly away from us.  Any bets on which it is?â ?  No one offered any wagers.

Brin pointed to the two fighter pilots.  â Å“Get to your planes.  We'll launch in a few minutes.  I'd like you to put an end to Che and his damned Monster Mash Krupp-Daimler!â ?

â Å“Aye-aye, Dread Lord,â ? chorused Snowpea and Fusilier.


Cub Reporter and designated Wiper Gunnar was doping off on the job when Snowpea marched through the engine bay and opened the hatch leading into the cavernous wing.  â Å“Hey!â ? shouted Gunnar. â Å“You can't go in there!â ?

Snowpea halted.  â Å“Who are you?  And why can't I go in here?â ?

Gunnar sauntered over to her, casually flipping an Official Wiper Rag over one shoulder.  â Å“Well, little lady,â ? he announced, â Å“I'm designated Engine Wiper Gunnar.  Which means I'm in charge here -- and that means you don't go just anywhere you want.â ?  He pointed to a small sign bolted to the door.  â Å“See that sign?  'Authorized Personnel'.  I'm Authorized Personnel.  You ain't.â ?  He emphasized the 'ain't' with a finger stab to the shoulder.

â Å“I see,â ? said Snowpea.  â Å“Well, let me show you my credentials, Mr. Wiper-designate.â ?

Gunnar's self-satisfied smile died as a large handgun appeared, its huge bore centered between his eyes.  He recognized the gun, a Colt-Makarov .75-90.  If the 'little lady' so much as twitched, his brains would become as spray paint on the bulkheads.  â Å“Ah,â ? he said. â Å“Um.â ?  The spiraling lands inside the barrel looked like a corkscrew to Hell -- or at least Labrador.

â Å“I take it I'm Authorized Personnel?â ? purred Snowpea.  Gunnar nodded, careful not to bump the hand cannon.

Snowpea smiled.  â Å“Good.â ?  Her voice rose to a shriek.  â Å“If you ever, ever lay a finger on me again,â ? the big barrel rose and fell, halting with a bone-jarring thump between the Wiper's eyes, â Å“I'll blow your head (thump) clean off your (thump) shoulders!â ?  (Thump-thump-thump.)

Gunnar came to some minutes later.  The Left Power Cell Engine-master was shaking him.  â Å“Get up you lazy bum!  Get to wiping!â ?  The man dragged him upright and shoved him at the big Yamashita diesel.  â Å“And don't get any blood on my engine!â ?

The huge Northrop-Piper Semi-Wing drove through the bright sky, diesels hammering, generators humming, dynamos driving their big props.  In the cockpit, Duke Baker contemplated the mysteries of time, space, and malfeasance.  Pustule-designate Monk trembled before the rows of verniers and levers and switches making up the Engineer Station, praying that no one would ask him to touch, adjust, or otherwise mess with anything.

Boss Brin heard Monk mumbling.  She would have asked about the prayer, but Monk's responses often verged on the same level of inappropriate confusion as Mahareesh DanJanou'.

Just below the sound of the muttering engines Monk prayed.  â Å“Now I lay me down to sleep, now I lay me down to sleep, now I lay me down to . . .â ?

He drifted off to sleep before anyone shot him.


(tbc)

 

[jrhume]

Chance and Mis-Chance

Snowpea pulled the starter lever and the big Wright-Overland radial chugged to life.  After an initial pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, it settled down to a smooth rumble.  The engine oil temperature climbed into the operating range and stabilized.  Humming â Å“Mary had a little lambâ ? Snowpea switched the safety latches to OFF, leaving her GeeBee-Boeing MicroBat hanging by only a single electrically operated hook.  Clicking the intercom switch, she called Mahareesh DanJanou - Bombardier, Navigator, and General Flunky for this trip.  â Å“Mahareesh!  Are you awake?â ?

â Å“Of course I'm awake, my child,â ? came the soft response.  â Å“Although in a larger sense, I might just be dreaming this whole sequence.  In which case . . .â ?

Snowpea cut him off.  â Å“Stop the philosophical chatter, Mahareesh!  I'm ready!  Is Fusilier all set?â ?

â Å“Fusilier reports his aircraft in operational status,â ? replied DanJanou.  â Å“I can't advise you as to his spiritual readiness.â ?

â Å“Fusilier doesn't have a spirit, Mahareesh.  In its place he projects a sniveling attitude.â ?

â Å“Yes.  I can see where such a thing might be handy for a Henchman.â ?

â Å“Tell the Boss we're ready -- and go easy on the philosophical meanderings.â ?

â Å“Done and done,â ? replied DanJanou after a short pause.  â Å“She says you may launch at any time.â ?

â Å“Okay, Mahareesh.  It's your call.  Fire when ready, Gridley!â ?

The latch opened and her Gee Bee racer-derived MicroBat dropped free of the bomber.  She let out a yell of pure delight as the stubby fighter accelerated.  â Å“Rhinestone One is on the way!â ? she called and began a climbing right turn.

â Å“Rhinestone Two has a problem.â ?  Snowpea caught sight of her wingman's bright red plane, also in a right turn, pulling away at a high rate of speed.

â Å“Slow down, Two.  What's wrong?â ?

â Å“That's the problem, Snow.  My throttle's stuck.  I think a cable must be busted.  The lever just flops around, like it's not attached.  The engine's running at full power.â ?  Fusilier's voice was more irritated than excited.  He leveled off, heading back toward land.  â Å“I'm going to head for the barn and hope the engine holds together for a few minutes.â ?

â Å“Okay, Two.  Good luck.â ?  The MicroBat had the glide characteristics of a brick.  â Å“Don't try to land that thing if the engine conks out.  Just get out when you get over land.â ?

â Å“Belay that!â ?  It was Boss Brin.  â Å“Land it in one piece or suffer the consequences, Fusilier!  I paid good money for that thing.â ?  Her voice became whiny.  â Å“Besides, I'm still making payments!â ?

â Å“Right, Boss,â ? replied Fusilier.  â Å“Kill myself in trying to land it or you'll kill me anyway.  I love these little morale-building lectures of yours.â ?

â Å“Do you really?  I've been practicing.  Took a correspondence course called â Å“Creative Rants for the Complete Tyrantâ ? last winter.  Did wonders for my delivery.â ?

Snowpea broke in.  â Å“When you get close, call Old Guy.  He may have an idea or two.â ?

â Å“Yeah,â ? replied Fusilier.  â Å“Trouble is -- his ideas usually involve crime, women and booze.â ? 

â Å“Sounds right up your alley,â ? said Snowpea.  She turned and flew over the Semi-Wing.  â Å“I'm going to check out the competition, Boss.â ?

â Å“Okay,â ? said Brin.  â Å“The ADF is pointing dead ahead.â ?

â Å“I wish you wouldn't say 'dead' quite so often, ma'am.â ?  Snowpea began scanning the sky before her.  â Å“I just hope they haven't launched their own fighters.â ?


Inch was, at that moment, gingerly advancing the throttle on his Gnat.  One had to use caution in applying fuel to the LeRhone double-row, nineteen-cylinder rotary engine.  All that rotating mass made for a torque response from Hell.

â Å“Aaaaaaarrrgh!â ? said the radio.  Inch glanced over in time to see Lance's Gnat fall toward the ocean, rolling slowly. 

â Å“Take it easy on the gas!â ? yelled Inch.  He lost sight of Lance.  Then he noticed smoke curling out from under his own instrument panel.  â Å“Uh-oh,â ? said Inch.  He began easing the throttle back.

Several things happened at once.  One propeller blade darted off into the stratosphere, followed immediately by the other two.  With a single loud 'Sput!' the LeRhone quit.  As Inch began to say, â Å“Oh, shhhh . . .â ?  a muffled pop signaled the start of a dandy fire.

On board the Monster Masher, they heard Inch sniveling over the radio. â Å“Mommy!â ?  The mechanical clicking of the LeRhone as it wound down and the roar of flames came through loud and clear.  â Å“I've pissed my pants,â ? moaned Inch.  Then all was quiet.  Che peered down to the left, searching for any sign of the Fairey-Focker.

â Å“I zee him,â ? he said after a moment.  â Å“Doesn't he haf zat pink and white ztriped parachute?â ?

â Å“That's him,â ? agreed Dorosh.  â Å“Can you see Lance anywhere?â ?

Franko stepped in from the radio room.  â Å“I just heard from Lance,â ? he said.  â Å“It was sort of garbled.  He's got it under control and is climbing.  Says he's okay, except for wet pants.â ?

Che swore.  â Å“Zumone ist going to haf to make zose guys use the head before zey go flying!â ?

â Å“Yessir!â ? they chorused.

â Å“Alert ze gunnerz,â ? ordered Che.  â Å“Ve don't vant them blowing our only fighter out of ze sky.â ?

Snowpea came down out of the sun, marveling at the size of the pirate bomber.  She aimed carefully, uncertain what good her two little .75 Mattel-Browning machine guns would do.  Pop-pop-poppity-pop! went the guns.  â Å“Yeeehaaaww!â ? went Snowpea, as she rolled and dove away.

Mike, the Tailgunner, jerked awake.  Tinny noises emanated from his headset, hanging on one arm of his Lazy-Boy Tailgunner recliner.  He had trouble hearing for a moment because of the loud banging noises.  As he slipped the headset on he was startled to see a couple large pieces of sheet metal flip by and disappear aft, followed by a cloud of smaller bits and a large volume of smoke.  â Å“Um -- hello?â ?

Franko was excited.  â Å“We're under attack!  Wake up back there!â ?

â Å“I am awake,â ? replied Mike, in a sulky manner.  â Å“Who's attacking us?â ?

â Å“I didn't get a detailed description,â ? whined Franko.  â Å“I was too busy ducking about.â ?

â Å“Well -- okay.  We -- uh, we have a small fire going in one of the engines, I think.  Had you noticed that?â ?

â Å“Don't worry about the fire.  The Despot is taking care of it.  Just don't let them shoot any more holes in us!â ?

â Å“Aye-aye,â ? mumbled Mike.  He peered up, down, all around â “ wishing he'd remembered to bring his glasses.  Nothing could be seen, except for a solid trail of black smoke stretching out behind.  Grasping the gun grips, he swung the turret further down.  It was very uncomfortable, hanging there looking down into the sea.  Besides, the grips were always icy cold and made his fingers get all numb and tingly. 


Padraig had the bombsight torn down and was happily reassembling the lower pivot-joint and crosswind correction gizmo when he became aware of the phone buzzing.  Grumpy at the interruption, he grabbed the handset.  â Å“Geeno's Pizza.â ?

â Å“What?  Dammit Padraig!  What are you doing!  We're under attack!â ? 

â Å“Geez, Franko.  Sorry.  I keep forgetting I don't work for Geeno anymore.  Take a chill pill, man.  You sound kind of stressed.â ?

â Å“I am stressed!  We have one engine on fire and there are several large-caliber bullet holes in the cockpit!  Get on your guns!  Repel boarders!  I mean -- ah, you know.â ?

â Å“Okay,â ? promised Padraig.  â Å“I'll get right on it.â ?  Returning to the field-stripped bombsight he sighed and began putting it back together.  Some called him anal.  Some said he was moronic.  He ignored such jibes.  They were all of them jealous of his talents.  Besides, it went against the grain to engage in armed combat with such a fine piece of machinery lying higgledy-piggledy on the deck.  Eyes glazing, tongue protruding, Padraig fitted the middle optic correction assembly into its housing and reached for the 10mm spanner.

Mike cocked his head, squinting.  There?  No.  Yes!  He saw the enemy fighters.  Two of them, in trail, climbing up from the rear.  He swung the guns to bear.  A momentary doubt crossed his mind.  Were they both enemy aircraft?  Keying the intercom, he called, â Å“Hey, Franko, do we have any friendlies out there?â ?  Silent hissing was his only reply.  He called again.  No answer.  â Å“Well,â ? he mumbled.  â Å“If any of our planes were nearby, someone would have told me.â ?  He drew a careful bead on the lead fighter.

Forward, Franko ignored the buzzing coming from the radio room and went on serving hot chocolate and peanut butter cookies to the Tyrant and cockpit crew.

â Å“Are ze gunnerz alert?â ? asked Che.

â Å“Of course, Despot,â ? replied Franko.  â Å“They're alerted and vigilant.  There won't be any more trouble from Brin's fighters.â ?

â Å“Gutt,â ? said Che, crunching on a cookie.  â Å“Zummary executionz von't be needed zen?â ?

â Å“Oh no, sir,â ? squeaked Franko, darting back into the radio room.

â Å“Absolutely not,â ? managed Bossi through chattering teeth.  He sat staring at the .75 inch hole blown in his Engineering panel, wondering if it might have damaged anything important.  He had no stomach for the cookies and hot chocolate at his elbow.

Dorosh munched his cookies and thought good thoughts.  He appropriated Bossi's cookies and chocolate.  Life was good.  Monster Masher droned on, trailing smoke, elite crew at the ready.


Far below, Inch plopped into the sea, only a few yards from one of Che's pirate galleys.  There were two of them, heading into the open sea, expecting to find Brin's cargo ships battered, defenseless, and easy plucking.  One steered over and picked Inch from the water.  A hulking savage, clad only in a leather singlet, bashed him on the back a few times and handed over a cup of fiery brew.  â Å“Drink this, lad!  We'll have you right in half a moment!â ?

Inch sipped at the potent liquid and looked about the deck.  A double row of benches lined the deck, each bench occupied by two brawny pirates, pulling long oars to the deep boom of a drum.  The men and women sang as they pulled -- bellowing in slow time.  The lyrics he could understand seemed to describe endless varieties of murder and mayhem. 

He glanced at the huge man who had provided the drink, noting the black whip in his hand.  â Å“I thought we had installed engines in these barges.â ?

â Å“Engines!â ?  snarled the savage captain.  â Å“The Despot ran out of money after buying his precious planes!  Besides, we don't need no stinking engines!â ?  He cracked the whip.  â Å“Pull!  Pull, you bastards!  Pull until your backs break!  Pull to the drum!  Pull until your guts rupture and you collapse in a twitching heap on the deck!  Pull!â ?  Winking at Inch, the man strode forward, still bellowing.  The oarsmen laughed in a cruel way, pulling and singing.  Inch huddled in a corner, whimpering.

With a soft sigh, the ragged wretch on the drum collapsed to the deck.  The singing died away as the pirates lost rhythm.  â Å“Hey!â ? yelled one.  â Å“You've crossed my bleeding oar!â ?  Angry snarling broke out along the deck.

â Å“Here you!â ?  A rough hand snatched Inch from his corner.  â Å“I need a new drummer!â ?  With a flip of his wrist, the bronzed captain tossed the expired drum operator over the side and plopped Inch down in his place.  â Å“Take it slow,â ? ordered the captain.  â Å“Let them get back into rhythm!â ?

Eager, unmindful of his fears, Inch took up the weather-beaten mallet and struck the drum.  Controlling his excitement, he beat a slow tempo, bringing order into chaos.  It was a delicious moment.  He'd often dreamed of being a band leader.

â Å“All right,â ? he shouted.  â Å“Let's sing!  Does anyone know Pirates of Penzance?â ?

â Å“Oh -- oh!â ? exclaimed a villainous specimen in the third row.  â Å“Me -- me!  I know all Frederic's lines!â ?  He pointed at a rugged woman wearing an eyepatch.  â Å“And Sledge, there, can recite all the daughters' lines.â ?

â Å“But who will play Ruth?â ? asked Inch.

â Å“I, by God!â ? shouted the brawny captain.  â Å“I know those songs cold!â ?  Several pirates murmured and grumbled, but a crack of the whip silenced them.

Thus did Vicious Pirate Galley Number Two row forth into the wild ocean, reverberating to the stirring songs of Gilbert & Sullivan.


(tbc)

 

[jrhume]

Soap Operetta

Mike was justifiably proud of his marksmanship.  Hadn't he won the All-Pirate skeet and hog shooting contest?  His score on the Escaping Prisoner course was a near-perfect 9.9.  Yes, Mike was a good shot.

He tracked the approaching fighters, waiting for the correct moment.  The second one first, he decided.  That way the lead fighter wouldn't know his wingman had been shot down.  For the tenth time, he wished for his glasses.  His finger caressed the trigger.

Snowpea was just about to put paid to the Fairey-Focker ahead of her when a series of hammer blows shook her fighter.  Sputtering and trailing smoke, the MicroBat nosed down toward the sea.  Cursing, she cranked the canopy back and prepared to bail out.

Lance started a left turn, easing his Gnat around so he could see the enemy fighter in its final dive.  He shouted aloud, amazed at his delivery from certain destruction.  His Fairey-Focker was a virtual pig, requiring a steady hand on the controls and a solid dose of luck to survive an engagement.  His best chance had been to draw the MicroBat to within range of the Monster Masher's guns.  Banking to the right, Lance raised his hand, starting a cheery wave at the victorious tail gunner just as a stream of large caliber slugs struck his fighter.  Seconds later, he found himself hanging in his chute with no clear recollection of how he got there.  As the chute rotated, he finished the gesture, although in a different, ruder manner.

â Å“I got 'em both!â ? yelled Mike. 

â Å“Ah -- both?â ?  Franko's voice had a certain tone of incredulity and fear. 

â Å“Yeah,â ? said Mike, with a bit less élan.  â Å“Both.â ?

â Å“Um -- I don't know how to tell you this, but one of them was ours.â ?

â Å“Ours?  But . . .â ?  Mike fell silent, contemplating a possible career change.  His parachute lay at hand.  â Å“Uh -- just claim one kill for me, would you, Franko, old buddy, old pal?â ?

â Å“Sure.  Count on me.â ?

He didn't miss the gloating in Franko's response.  As usual, the Commo Clod was eyeing new job opportunities.  Bowing to the inevitable, Mike strapped on his chute and dropped out the lower hatch.  Free-falling toward the ocean, he mused on the future.  â Å“Maybe I'll go back to Canada.  Herding sheep has its advantages.â ?  He still had a valid Amalgamated Canadian Wool Gatherer Union card.


Engine Wiper-designate Gunnar was sound asleep when the alarms went off.  The Left Power Cell Engineer had gone off to play 'Go Fish' with the Right Power Cell Engineer and his wiper.  His final instructions to Gunnar had been a laconic. â Å“Don't get caught sleeping nor playing with any of the hired help.â ?

The Power Cell was full of smoke.  Gunnar recollected draping a Snazzy-Clean Wiper Rag over a hot exhaust manifold.  Perhaps that was not a good place to dry it.  He stumbled to the inner door and flung it open.  Smoke poured into the cockpit area.  His throat was on fire.  â Å“Anybody got something cold to drink?â ? he gasped.

Infanteer, poor soul, lay on the floor, still recovering from his bout with airsickness.  The wave of heated air and smoke didn't do him any good.  Retching, he rolled off the couch.

â Å“Fire!â ? yelled Monk, desperate to escape the Engineer Position with its tantalizing, yet horrifying array of verniers, levers and knobs.  He dashed aft, tripped over Infanteer and plunged headlong down the hatchway leading to the lower level and a parachute.

Boss Brin twisted around in her Ace Pilot seat and roared, â Å“Pull the fire extinguisher!â ?

Gunnar stumbled over the unresisting Infanteer and found himself back at the power cell door.  Realizing he had a chance to cover himself with glory (always assuming no one found out how the fire got started in the first place) he crawled into the cell and groped for the fire extinguisher handle.  Now, as chance would have it, the engineers at Northrop-Piper had not considered that the power cell might be filled with choking smoke when it came time to put out a fire.  Thus, they had positioned the Engine -- Fire Extinguisher handle next to the Engine -- Release for Repair actuator.  Future designs remedied this lack of foresight.

With a shower of sparks and a jangle of broken connections, the engine and generator unit plunged out of sight.  The smoke blew away, giving Gunnar a clear view of the disaster and an inkling of his future prospects.  He stepped back into the cockpit and pulled the door shut.  â Å“Better keep out of the area for a few minutes,â ? he announced to all and sundry.  â Å“Give the smoke a chance to clear.â ?  With that, he nipped down the hatchway, searching for a parachute.

Mahareesh watched as Pustule-designate Monk and Cub Reporter (Wiper-designate) Gunnar donned chutes and hopped out the escape hatch.  Neither stopped to explain anything.  A moaning Infanteer fell down from above, further complicating matters.  DanJanou bundled the chief head chopper into a parachute and tossed him after the others.  He then climbed up into the cockpit and stood watching as Brin and Baker wrestled with the controls.  â Å“What's up, Dread Lord?â ?

â Å“We've lost an engine!â ? shrieked Brin.  â Å“Help us redirect power to the dynamos!â ?  She gestured desperately toward the deserted Engineering Position.

â Å“Oh, is that all,â ? yawned DanJanou.  He sat down, adjusted the seat a trifle, cracked his knuckles, then waved a negligent hand over the controls.  In an instant, the big Semi-Wing stabilized.  Two of the dynamos went off line, props feathered.  The others purred at reduced power.  The large trim wheel between the pilot positions hummed for a moment.  A few last whiffs of smoke blew away.  â Å“What now, ma'am?â ?  asked DanJanou.

â Å“Uh -- well, nothing for the moment.â ?  Brin and Baker stared as DanJanou wandered aft. 

â Å“Let's see if we can get this pig home,â ? grated Baker.

â Å“Yeah,â ? agreed Brin, failing to notice Baker's derogatory reference to her fine Semi-Wing.

******

â Å“It's no use, Despot.â ?  Bossi cringed as he spoke.  Che didn't reply or even look around.  Bossi tiptoed aft and dropped into Padraig's bombardier position.  â Å“Howdy, Padraig,â ? he called as he strapped a chute on.  â Å“See you in the funny papers.â ?  A final wave and he disappeared through the belly hatch.  Padraig sat frowning, surrounded by parts and pieces of his beloved bombsight.  Franko slipped down the passage and out the hatch, Dorosh right behind.

â Å“Hell,â ? muttered Padraig.  â Å“No one ever tells me anything.â ?  He clambered up into the cockpit to find Che staring out at the sky, muttering to himself.  A cheery blaze burned to the left, having completely engulfed two dynamos and a good part of the wing.  â Å“Ah -- Despot, sir,â ? said Padraig, pointing at the fire.  â Å“That's not normal -- is it?â ?

â Å“I vas gutt Despot, vasn't I?â ?  Che climbed down from his seat.  â Å“Vasn't I okee-dokee?â ?

Padraig searched for something to say.  â Å“Sure -- ah, Supreme Slave Driver.  No one could match you as Taskmaster and Tyrant.â ?

â Å“Gutt -- gutt,â ? muttered Che.  He patted Padraig on the arm.  â Å“You haf earned a gutt hard schpanking.â ?  He sighed.  â Å“Come.  Ve must ezcape.â ?

â Å“Oh, Despot,â ? blubbered Padraig, overcome with the honor of it all.  â Å“A spanking?â ?

â Å“Ja, mit ze flat of my zword?  Vould you like zat?â ?

Padraig was so happy he jumped without thinking of the bombsight, still disassembled on the deck.  Later, the sadness of that loss tempered his joy -- but only a little.

******

Snowpea climbed over the galley rail and stood dripping.  Inch gaped at her.  â Å“I know you!  You're that she-demon!  Snowpea, the Polish Princess!â ?

â Å“That's me,â ? admitted Snowpea.  â Å“You have the advantage of me.â ?

â Å“Pirate Pilot Inch,â ? he exclaimed with a neat bow.  â Å“Glad to meet you.â ?

Bloodthirsty pirates glared at Snowpea from their sweat-stained rowing benches.  One brute, clad only in a leather thingmie and carrying a large whip, stood closest, looking her up and down.  She knew that look.  Cold sweat ran down her spine.

â Å“Say,â ? rasped the brute.  â Å“We're having a little trouble.  Can you help us out?â ?

She gulped.  â Å“S-sure.  Anything t-to help.â ?  Gulls screamed nearby.  Waves splashed against the hull.  Oars creaked.  She hoped the end was quick.  The thought of a slow, icky death made her nauseous.

â Å“We need a good soprano,â ? explained Inch.  He pointed out a swarthy female pirate.  â Å“Sledge knows all the songs but her voice leaves something to be desired.â ?

Snowpea felt faint.  She must be hallucinating.  The one-eyed pirate stood up, grinning.  â Å“Whiskey has taken away me dulcet tones.  I can help you with the lyrics if you don't know 'em.â ?

â Å“Ah -- lyrics?â ?

Inch began beating the drum again.  The galley gained steerageway and rode easier.  â Å“Pirates of Penzance,â ? he said, as if that explained anything.  â Å“You know.  Gilbert and Sullivan?â ?

She knew the truth then.  They were going to kill her in some strange, perverted musical fashion.  Her friends would never know what happened.  She sat down.  â Å“I need a drink.â ? 

The whip-carrying barbarian knelt beside her and offered a flask.  He was apologetic.  â Å“It's a bit strong, I'm afraid.  Milk and cookies makes us upset at the tummy.â ?  His voice rose.  â Å“Right, you lot?â ?  â Å“Right!â ? roared the assembled throng, now rowing at a steady pace.

â Å“If you don't know the songs, ma'am, Sledge can help,â ? said one wizened old pirate.

Snowpea shook her head.  Nothing changed.  Water gurgled past the hull.  Inch grinned down at her.  â Å“You do know the operetta, don't you?â ?

â Å“I . . ,â ? she hesitated.  â Å“I only know the daughters' parts well.  Ruth -- um, I can't remember her songs.  Much.â ?

A roar of appreciation went up.  She got to her feet, feeling giddy.  â Å“Ruth we got covered,â ? said Mr. Whip.  â Å“I can carry a decent falsetto,â ? he added with a smug, toothless grin.

â Å“Okay,â ? agreed Snowpea, beginning to hope.  â Å“Pirates of Penzance it is.â ?

Vicious Pirate Galley Number Two began the long haul back to port, ringing with the comedic strains of Gilbert & Sullivan.  Galley Number One ranged alongside, part audience, part chorus.


(tbc)

 

[jrhume]

Mopping Up

Lance was dragged aboard Vicious Pirate Galley Number Two just as a one-legged pirate began a song.

"I am the very model of a modern Major General,â ? he sang, stumping about the deck.  â Å“I've information vegetable, animal and mineral."

The pirate crew pulled throughout, keeping time with a villainous-looking thug on the drum.  A thoroughly despicable, swarthy, blood-thirsty pirate dropped Lance in a corner and handed him a mug of whiskey.  â Å“I'm up next,â ? whispered the blackguard as he sped off.

Snowpea raised a glass to Lance.  â Å“I think your tail gunner buddy shot us both down.â ?

â Å“He's no buddy of mine,â ? grumped Lance.  â Å“My lumbago is going to trouble me for a month because of that little dip in the ocean!â ?

â Å“Mine too,â ? sighed Snowpea.  She grinned and gestured at the assembly of rogues arrayed about the deck.  â Å“Still, this has turned into a lot of fun.  Do you know 'Pirates of Penzance'?â ?

â Å“Well,â ? mumbled Lance, looking away in embarrassment.  â Å“I've always had a hankering to play the police sergeant.  He seems a likely fellow.â ?

Snowpea nodded her understanding.  She knew rough, tough commandos like Lance often had problems dealing with musical and artistic feelings -- especially anything involving tights or singing in a high voice.  â Å“I'll mention it to Captain Whip,â ? she murmured, indicating the burly man striding to and fro on the deck.  â Å“He's mincing about doing Ruth.  I'm sure no one has volunteered to be the sergeant yet.  Nor the policemen, either.  You may have to play them all.  These lads think cops are icky, nasty -- not to be invited to a decent brawl.â ?

Lance's spirits rose.  He began humming along with the songs.  He felt at home.  After all, these scoundrels were his allies.  It would be best, he decided, not to let on that his fondest wish was to be a Scotland Yard detective.  The rotter on the drum nodded and grinned at him.  Lance hoped he wasn't trying to pick him up.

******

The boat reeked of rotting fish, but at least it was drier than the ocean.  Gunnar huddled miserable in a ragged blanket, watching the crew pull the other two aboard.  Monk was dragged out of the water and dumped.  Infanteer lay in the scuppers, rocking back and forth like a sodden log, showing all the signs of acute sea sickness.

â Å“This lot friends of yours?â ? asked the boat captain, a bewhiskered, sou'wester clad figure balancing without effort on the heaving deck.

Gunnar shrugged.  â Å“They was on the plane with me, but I don't really know them.â ?

â Å“Good,â ? said the captain.  â Å“You'll get to know one another much better, I'll warrant.â ?

â Å“I hope not!â ? exclaimed Gunnar.  â Å“I just want my mommy -- er -- I mean, I just want to go home and get back to my job as Ace Reporter.â ?

â Å“Ace Reporter?  I thought you said your job was Cub Reporter.â ?

â Å“Well, I won't be a Cub anymore when I get back and tell my story.  Including your dangerous rescue of survivors, of course, sir,â ? lied Gunnar.  He had no intention of mentioning the rough looking captain or any of his scabrous crew in his article.

â Å“Good.  Good.  Too bad it will be old news by the time you get back.â ?

â Å“Get back?  What do you mean?â ?  A mounting horror began enveloping Gunnar's soul, which was surprising since several women have been heard to maintain that he had no soul -- or heart either.  One or two even swear that he can't get turned on unless there are fish present, although the women in question were known to have bitter feelings toward him.

Screaming didn't help.  There was no one to hear.  Throwing a tantrum was of no consequence.  Monk tried it and ended up hanging head-down from the mainmast for a couple of hours.  Infanteer vomited all over the main cabin, spewing fish entrails and ship biscuit.  In the future he would be fed and watered in the lower hold and his hammock slung over the bilge.

The boat captain was not encouraged in his new crew members.  He and the first mate stood discussing them later that afternoon, watching idly as Gunnar capered about the afterdeck, howling at the empty ocean, help-help-anyone-for-God's-sake-help.

â Å“These lot may be more trouble than they're worth,â ? observed the mate.

â Å“A-yup,â ? replied the captain.

â Å“I can't understand their reluctance to work a fishing trip to the Arctic in the dead of winter,â ? added the mate.

â Å“A-yup,â ? said the captain.

â Å“You offered them the usual shares, along with all the rotting fish and century-old ship biscuit they could eat, didn't you, sir?â ?

â Å“A-yup.â ?

â Å“And gave them free rein of the rats in the hold?â ?  The mate blushed.  â Å“For -- uh, food, or,â ? he cleared his throat before whispering, â Å“whatever?â ?

â Å“A-yup.â ?

Gunnar went on shrieking.   


Old Guy throttled the dirigible engines back to idle.  Fusilier frowned.  â Å“I don't hear anything.â ?

â Å“I'm positive I heard someone screaming,â ? said Old Guy.  They sat listening.

Behind the control cabin and linked to it via a covered walkway, hung the passenger gondola.  Powerful electric motors were mounted on either side of the gondola.  The main power unit was buried in the hull of the Goodyear-Ford Rigid Airship. 

Old Guy throttled up again and the airship accelerated in a stately manner.

Fusilier flipped open a notebook.  â Å“We have six pirates in custody.â ?

Old Guy chuckled.  â Å“How are the they taking it?â ?

â Å“In stride.  With admirable fortitude.â ?  Fusilier paused.  â Å“One wants to emigrate to Canada.â ?

â Å“Canada?â ?

Fusilier shrugged.  â Å“Different strokes . . .â ?

Old Guy changed the subject.  â Å“This is it, I'm afraid.  I think we've found all the survivors.  Poor old Monk.  He'd just made Pustule.â ?

â Å“Right -- and what will the place be like without Infanteer?â ?  Fusilier didn't seem very sad.

â Å“Healthier, I suspect.â ?  Old Guy banked the airship, steering for land.  â Å“What next, Fusilier?  Your days as a Henchman may be numbered.  I don't think Despot Brin is happy with any of us.â ?

â Å“Right.  She's not going to like my bailing out of her precious little fighter.  I don't think the pirate ransoms will be enough to pay it off.â ?

â Å“Probably not,â ? agreed Old Guy.  â Å“The only one worth any money is Padraig.  He knows all about those electro-mechanical thingmies.â ?

Fusilier was silent for some minutes.  Finally he said, â Å“I hear the Iroquois are hiring fighter pilots.  Maybe I'll wander up that way.â ?

â Å“Another war with Montreal?â ?

â Å“Looks like.â ?

â Å“Hell,â ? murmured Old Guy.  He gazed out over the water.  â Å“I think it's time for a change of scenery.  That blonde I've been hanging out with is getting a little uppity.â ?

â Å“Fine with me,â ? said Fusilier.  â Å“What will we do with the pirates?â ?

â Å“Sell 'em to the Iroquois women.  Except for Padraig, of course.â ?

â Å“Okay.  What do we do with him?â ?

â Å“Recruit him!  The Iroquois need good gizmo techies.â ?

â Å“Damn!â ? exclaimed Fusilier.  â Å“Let's do it!â ?  He elbowed Old Guy.  â Å“You're always full of good ideas!â ?

â Å“Full of something, anyway.â ?

A single quavering wail reached their ears.

â Å“There it is again,â ? observed Old Guy.

â Å“What could it be?  Mermaids?  Lungfish?  Basking sharks?â ?

â Å“Mermaids are fictional characters.â ?

Fusilier shrugged.  â Å“Probably just the wind.â ?  The dirigible motored west, into the sunset.


Gunnar lay over the transom, panting, exhausted by his mournful cry of despair.  A rough hand dragged him onto the deck.  It was the first mate.  â Å“Come on!  I've a job for you!â ?

â Å“I'm not fit for work,â ? pleaded Gunnar.  â Å“I'm a newspaper reporter!â ?

â Å“No problem,â ? the mate assured him.  â Å“This is right up your alley.  Wrapping fish.â ?

â Å“Oh, God!â ? sniveled Gunnar.  â Å“Deathless prose and dead mackerels!â ?  He stumbled after the mate.  â Å“What's the name of this ship?â ?

The mate snatched him up and gave him a teeth rattling shake.  â Å“They ain't mackerels!â ?  Calming, the man dropped Gunnar to the deck.  â Å“Boat's name is 'Pequod Too'.  Captain Ahab, Junior -- and it's codfish you'll be wrapping.â ?

Seagulls paused in their flying.  Whales turned calm eyes toward the sound.  A dolphin was seen to pass up a fish as he listened.  In the depths, giant squid swished on, not having the brainpower to wonder about the noise.  Two polar bears, resting on a slab of ice, heard the wailing and slipped into the water, taking it for the death cry of a seal.

Thus did Cub Reporter Gunnar announce the beginning of his career before the mast.


END

 

[brin11]

Excellent story.  You definitely have a gift for this sort of thing.  I was really looking forward to kicking Che's pirate ass though.  Oh well, at least I didn't get killed off.  Doh!

 

[Fishbone Jones]

I love these! Great work!

PS - If Che can snivel his way into a story,  :-* I want in too!!! Any old reprobate profile will work. ;D

 

[winchable]

Finally finished it!

Excellent story, first time I've read something non-school/work related from start to finish in a while!
Thanks for making me Ze lord of ze pirates.

Yeehaw!!