Tag: space

FP299 – Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety-nine.

Tonight we present Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Mike Luoma.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, we find Joe Monk in an age well before his ascension to the throne, while he was still yet learning to handle diplomacy. Consider this episode Skinner Co.’s tonic to last week’s entry, Lingering.

You’re welcome. Sort of.

Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

After having laid waste to the stellar fleets of two warring star systems, Joe Monk had found himself in the awkward position of having to apologize for his bout of enthusiasm. Macbeth, his scuttering companion, had made the necessary diplomatic calls between rounds of beratement.

“Monk, I swear you’re going to visit the Spinesians alone,” he’d said from beneath quivering eye-stalks. “Good luck pal, and pack a pillow. There isn’t a comfortable chair to be found in the breadth or depth of their culture. Everything they build looks like it’s mimicking a fat flamingo on the cusp of collapse – hold on, I’ve finally got the minister’s secretary on the line.”

– and so the cycle had continued until the barricades of red tape had been sufficiently navigated, and the ruling councils of the disputing systems had been properly coaxed.

The combined rage raised by Joe’s action was cause enough to bring about the first meeting of the Spinesians and the Smegmar in nearly three centuries, a historic event likely only made possible by the thorough devastation Monk had brought to their combat craft.

Both races had been quick to send drones to create baroque structures on the neutral moon that was to be the site of their conference, but ego and distrust prevented either side from entering the other’s settlement.

In the end, after a day of mediating long-distance bickering, MacBeth had simply transmitted a time and location, then pushed Monk into their landing vehicle. Their possession of the runabout was the result of extensive haggling on the crabinoid’s part, and he was sure to pull on his goggles at any chance to initialize the shuttle’s overpowered engine.

“You know, I’m really getting to like this little jalopy,” he said, as his pincers probed the controls.

Monk shared none of his companion’s chipper mood, but, then, he also knew he’d be responsible for most of the talking.

“Maybe they won’t show up. Traffic or something,” replied Joe.

Macbeth’s took in the mass of orange fauna that blanketed the rapidly approaching continent. “Yeah, well, whatever the case, let’s just hope these muckamucks are too far from the frontlines to notice that we’ve borrowed some of the scrap from your little shooting gallery.”

The rest of the trip to the mountaintop meadow was filled with the roar of their descent.

Within moments of their arrival, the Spinesian retinue came into view from the west, their caravan of elegantly curved fliers appearing as if a parade of crimson long-necked birds.

Their touchdown was cushioned by regal music emanating from recessed external speakers, and Monk guessed that the extension of their access ramp had been slowed to maximize the impact of their entrance. The Spinesians were a tall, six-legged people, with thin features and torsos capped with gray, nose-less faces. The being in the lead, obviously a lesser functionary, wore flowing panels of silver cloth over a magnanimously rolling segmented body.

The council exited the transport at a pace that was both authoritative and restive.

At the midpoint of the incline, the herald paused.

In flawless English, it said, “Behold, the Grand Council of the Benevolent Spinesian Empire, Keepers of the Hundred Suns and Priests of the Ultimate Wisdom. Behold, Shelny Miblorth, First Minister of the Tenth Parsec Kingdoms, Mother of the Kimblax Pact, Daughter of the…”

As the well practiced litany was recited, the fifth minister back, by Joe’s count, let forth a gassy discharge and a trio of wet ejections from beneath his or her crimson robes.

A Spinesian youth in the rearguard stood down from attention and began moving with purpose towards the head of the in the procession, even as the listing of names continued. Retrieving a synthetic sack from the sling about his neck, the child stooped and enclosed the excretion in the green-tinted bag. With practiced digits, the thick aroma that had begun to fill the air was sealed away.

The introduction ended as the collector retreated, and the party of diplomats renewed their ponderously-proud forward momentum.

Monk took the moment of distraction to hold counsel with his advisor.

Leaning towards Macbeth he whispered, “that was super gross.”

“It’s their culture,” side-mouthed the oversized lobster. “It’s not something they worry about.”

“It’s barbaric!” replied Monk. “That poor kid!”

“That poor kid? That poor kid is paid well and doesn’t think twice about the job. His parents probably display their pride with a bumper sticker.

“Hell, it might have even been a father and son act, the Spinesians are notorious for their nepotism.”

Though it was hard for Joe to read the group’s alien expressions, their dislike of him was made obvious by their occasional habit of raising a silent, slender finger of accusation in his direction.

Before any further declarations or expulsions could be made, however, the Smegmar arrived.

A single blocky dropship settled into the orangery, and its pilot wasted no time in entering the scene.

Even as the hatch slid wide, the insect-like occupant was delivering a high-speed chittering that Joe could only assume was a stately speech in its own language. Rather than wait for further disapproval, the human decided it might be best to make a better impression with an immediate act of contrition. Perhaps, if only interested enough to send a lone emissary, the Smegmarians were less concerned about the incident.

Interrupting the stream of quavering vowels, Monk stuck out his open hand in what he hoped would be recognized as a universal sign of peace. After a moment of consideration, the Smegarmarian reared under it’s beetle shell, presenting a bristling selection of limbs, and offered an extension from its lesser projections.

There was a moment of vigorous shaking, then the Smegmar crowed loudly and pulled Joe close for a hug between it’s knobbed dominant arms.

Once released, Joe returned to Macbeth’s side. Leaning close, he said, “I didn’t understand a word it said, but it seems happy enough now.”

Through clenched lips, Macbeth replied, “he basically said ‘I apologize for my late appearance, there has been upheaval in my court. I feel today we must make a change for the future – my people are in need, but my dukes think me mad.

‘Will you prove me right? Will you, the warrior who defeated the shells and mandibles of our war fleet, join me in my apparently-insane hope for an end?’”

“Huh,” nodded Joe. “I’ve never shook hands with a bug before. Wasn’t sure if he was going to spit acid at me or something when he stood up like that.”

“No, that was the male of the species’ procreation stalk. It’s sort of how Smegmar say hello to very, very close friends. It’s part of their surrender reflex, but, uh, most species are too disgusted to, er, accept the gesture.”

Striding past them, its body still set upright, the mantis-like head continued its victorious talk of treaties.

Macbeth continued his translation. “He says he’s been looking for a way to stop the fighting since he was hatched. He says you’ve given them the first real shot at a cease fire in decades.”

Even the Spinesians, with their great faces nodding, seemed taken by the moment.

With all sensory organs on the prince, Joe wiped his palm on his pant leg.

Despite the advancement, the historic Peace Accord of Orange Meadow was another week in the forging.

It would be marked by historians as the beginning of Monk’s rise to power.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

208 – Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Art of War, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eight.

Tonight we present, Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Art of War, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp208.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Asunder.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Joe Monk, and his intergalactic traveling companion, Macbeth, find themselves at the receiving end of unexpected alien aggressions.

Flash Pulp 208 – Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Art of War, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Joe Monk, the youth who would one day be Emperor of the Universe, was sitting at the main console of his ship, pleased to have been left alone at the helm for the first time since he’d undertaken to learn to operate his long-time home.

With diligence, he scanned the displays before him, watching the banks of numerical counters, and trouble lights, glow with a steady serenity.

He’d sat in his beige leather chair for eight hours, but he’d only noticed the absence of Macbeth, his tutor and companion, thirty minutes previous. The unexpected freedom had made him reluctant to leave his post, or even break his gaze from the outputs, despite the fact that his vessel required very little moment-to-moment intervention.

As he considered what his friend might be up to – perhaps taking in one of the library’s Astaire musicals – Monk began to feel the weight and power of his responsibility.

He smiled.

“It’s all up to me, while you’re off messing around,” he muttered, his voice taking on the pitch he used to simulate Macbeth’s chittering tone.”

Time passed, and the readouts stood steady. Joe grew bored.

Considering his rare opportunity, and unable to resist the call of the instrument panel, he decided it was an ideal opportunity for practice in evasive maneuvering – or, at least, as evasive as his rickety ship would allow.

As he attempted to override the autopilot, however, something unexpected happened: Although the light indicating his control remained red, the craft’s massive Sagan Drive engaged.

Joe immediately threw his hands into the air, to demonstrate his lack of guilt. After a moment of panic, he began to search around the room, but turned up no scapegoats.

His eyes returned to the information provided from the exterior sensors, at which point, the drive fired a second time, as a braking measure.

The override indicator was now a solid green.

His history of misplaced hands, knees, and sandwiches, had Joe concerned that the lurching would summon Macbeth, and he pushed himself to at least have an answer as to their location, should the alien bluster in.

His concern was quickly forgotten, however, as he discovered a double column of frigates above and below his new position. He couldn’t identify their place of origin, but a quick inspection of local energy discharges showed they were firing at each other with apparent vigour.

Now wishing Macbeth was at hand, Joe’s fingers flew across the helm’s broad keys.

The Sagan drive, so eager to perform just seconds before, refused to initiate.

Sweat began to form on Monk’s brow.

His intention was merely to remove the craft from immediate danger, but even as they took on momentum, a host of dials lit crimson under the sudden attentions of the surrounding warships.

The gravity compensators made the movements smooth, but Monk pictured what his flying egg must look like from the exterior, glowing with laser fire, arcing away from the plane of combat.

He’d always daydreamed a lot more general shaking when fighting, but, as it was his first time, he figured it must simply be another aspect overplayed by the movies he’d seen. Still, the meters clearly announced a spike in radiation levels, which was rarely a friendly gesture.

The projectile launcher Macbeth had equipped a week earlier had been intended as a tool for teaching, and he’d given Joe multiple lectures regarding how ridiculous using slow-moving masses as weapons, in the vast reaches of space, truly was.

It did little to stop Monk from initiating the targeting system.

With his left hand, he ordered the computer to auger sideways, in an effort to avoid incoming fire – with his right, he began dispatching the simple, formerly educational, metal spheres.

His wrists moving as quickly as his brain would allow, Joe convinced the ship into postures he would have otherwise thought impossible. It was only after his ammunition had run dry, and his brow was slick with concentration, that he realized he’d punched holes through every attacker.

Macbeth reentered, his pincers clapping rapidly.

“What are you doing!?” he demanded, but his eye-stalks did not await an answer.

“I beat them! We won!” Joe replied, slapping his friend across his plated shoulder joint.

Then, with a long exhale, Monk understood that he may have single-handedly slaughtered thousands of beings.

“Defeated them?” said the crabinoid, ”You idiot, all you’ve defeated is three thousand years of ritualistic military tradition. Normally this fight would have destroyed two percent of their drone fleet, tops, and that over a course of weeks – in five minutes you’ve turned both sides into junk. The Spinesians have made an art of war – prodding and poking, and name calling. Do you know how much threatening they must have intended to do? Have you considered the cost? Those people are in a major fiscal slump, and you’ve crushed the financial investment, and raw industrial output, of hundreds of worlds; not to mention the reality entertainment, and illegal gambling, you’ve disrupted.”

“Drones?” asked Joe, “Like robots?”

“Yes.”

“So I didn’t kill anyone?”

“No.”

Monk grinned.

There was a long silence as the pair inspected the field of hulks, one beaming, the other fretting.

“I guess,” Macbeth finally said, “your idiotic behaviour may have actually given the Spinesians’ stagnant economies something to rally behind. I sincerely hope that that something isn’t a murder squad to come hunt us down.”

“Bah – I’d knock them down too,” Joe replied.

With a sigh, his companion took up the helm and began dictating diplomatic apologies to the communications array.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Virgin in Space

It’s great marketing on Virgin’s part to call their new spaceship the VSS Enterprise, and congrats to them for a great PR day with the recent “test flight”.

Branson’s company Virgin Galactic announced Monday that the VSS Enterprise had successfully completed what it called a captive carry flight attached to a carrier plane.

…

The VSS Enterprise remained attached to its carrier aircraft for the duration of the 2-hour, 54-minute flight, reaching an altitude of 45,000 feet, according to a statement from Virgin. – CNN

A necessary step towards space tourism, which makes me happy, but certainly not a cheap one:

Virgin Galactic has envisioned one flight a week, with six tourists aboard. Each will pay $200,000 for the ride and train for at least three days before going. About 80,000 people have placed their names on the waiting list for seats. – Still CNN

Still, there’s definitely something to be said for the odd Leer-Jets-strapped-to-a-flying-wing appearance, although it sort of looks as if it were designed by an eight year old mashing up airplane model kits.