J
jrhume
Guest
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)
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)