Part III – Junk

This is Part III of the serial space western The Ghosts of Blackmoon Rift. It is also available for download in RTF format here. Or click here for a complete listing of episodes. 

“Clear this table, citizens,” snapped the leader of the uniformed men. Egan Torr glanced around, and then realized with a shock that he was talking to them. “I said move!”

“No need to be so sharp there, friend,” said Crash, grabbing his mug and getting up from the bench. Miss Kitty and Egan Torr followed suit.

Ignoring him, the uniforms heaved their wounded friend up onto the table. The man’s eyes were closed, and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. His blue jacket was open and beneath it, strips of polymer adhesive had been wrapped around his torso in a hastily improvised bandage.

“You say Young Wallace did this?” Kitty asked one of the men.

“Yes ma’am. And let me tell you that when we lay hands on that varmint, he’ll be sorry for the day that he tangled with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Energy Weapons.”

Part II – Son of a Gun

This is Part II of the serial space western The Ghosts of Blackmoon Rift. It is also available for download in RTF format here. Or click here for a complete listing of episodes.

            Egan Torr had never been at gunpoint before.  The shiver it sent down his spine was indescribable.  The moment seemed to expand with crystal clarity until he was aware of every sparkling detail – the distant pulsing of the dome’s ventilators, his own reflection in the barrel of the long rifle, and the way the girl’s two small ears were exactly symmetrical. 

The girl jerked the business end of her weapon up towards his face, and his awareness came crashing back down into his body.   “Step back, greenhorn, or you’re gonna be wearing a lead smile.”

Part I – PHD

This is Part I of the serial space western The Ghosts of Blackmoon Rift. It is also available for download in RTF format here. Or click here for a complete listing of episodes.

Part I – PHD

 

In all the three hundred and seventy-eight settled worlds and worldlets of the Sphere Confederacy, there was only one active manned spacecraft: the Sphereherself. She lay becalmed alongside a ravenous black hole, feeding off tendrils of solar energy that sluiced endlessly into its irresistible maw.

The Spherehad not fired her primary thrusters in over four centuries, relying instead on minor adjustments from her altitude jets to keep her aloft in the fluctuating gravity. Nevertheless, she was a buzzing hive of activity. Inside her scarred hull were Council Chambers, as well as the entire labyrinthine bureaucracy of the Confederated Worlds. It was evening within the Sphere, as Confederated Standard Time reckoned it, and Council was in full session. In a vast chamber that had once cradled half a million sleeping souls, the duly appointed representatives of the Confederacy bobbed gently in null spin gee as they carried out the business of the government with solemn diligence.

“Young Master Egan Torr,” said the Floor Speaker, and his words were amplified and carried throughout the chamber, “in view of your momentous dissertation on Engineer Astrogation Technologies, Transluminal Capabilities, and Interstellar Aspirations, this body is privileged both to confer on you a Doctorate of Engineer Archeology and to award you a research grant for the location and retrieval of –” here the speaker paused and blinked. “What was the name of your lost starship, Doctor?”

“The Revenant, Councilor,” said Doctor Egan Torr.

. . .

Egan Torr blinked into existence above the main street of Ander’s Gap and stepped ankle deep into horseshit.

“Where? What in the –” he sputtered. Raucous laughter drowned his protests. A group of rowdy bystanders were clustered behind a massive, thunderous-looking man wearing overalls that appeared to be made out of steel wool.

“Welcome to the Badlands, stranger!” yelled one of ruffians. “See you’ve already sampled the local culture. Don’t worry, it washes right off!”

“Mind you, Black Dan here will want every molecule back,” warned another.

“You went straight for the good stuff!” hooted a third.

“What isthis?” asked Torr, examining his lower extremities with distaste.

“That is real, 100% genuine horse manure, produced by all-natural, home-grown horses. Mynatural, home-grown horses. Worth about six thousand energy credits an ounce.” This was stated in the surliest fashion possible by the big man in the overalls, who was evidently Black Dan. He was wielding what appeared to be a huge chrome pooper-scooper, the most intimidating one that Egan Torr had ever seen.

“What is it doing in the middle of the street?” Torr spluttered.

“I saidit’s naturally produced. The horses drop it off wherever they feel like. I pick it up and ship it to discriminating payingclients throughout the Sphere. And if you walk out of that mess with even one drop on you, you’d better be prepared to pay.”

Torr’s heart sank. His research budget could scarcely afford this. He gingerly attempted to scrape the rank manure off his right leg with his left foot, but only succeeded in spreading the mess around. The crowd of men burst into laughter once more.

“You’d better lose the pants and shoes, greenhorn,” said one wag. “Cut ‘em off and leave ‘em. Those fancy jumpers ain’t worth a single ounce of Black Dan’s Premium Grade Equine Manure.” More uproarious laughter.

Egan Torr’s heart was pounding furiously. He felt the overwhelming urge to cash in his return credits right then and there and teleport back to the safety of the Sphere. But if he did that, his expedition would be over before it began. Even if he could explain this to the Grant Committee, how could he ever return to the Frontier? On the other hand, he didn’t very much fancy facing this brave new world in only his astrobriefs. Torr was on the verge of reaching for his wallet when a voice rang out.

“What’s goin’ on here, compadres?”

The entire scruffy crew turned to see who this brash newcomer might be. Egan Torr twisted carefully around, trying not to get any more muck on himself. Black Dan sucked in his breath sharply, though only Torr was close enough to hear it.

“Well g’mornin’ Daniel,” the interloper drawled laconically. “Who’s your fragrant acquaintance? I hope he cleans up nice.” The newcomer cut a striking figure. His dark hair was windswept, and he was wearing a leather flight jacket and an eye-patch. His right hand was composed of gleaming chrome, and his right leg ended just below the knee in a metal piston.

“Mornin’ Crash,” growled Black Dan. “Isn’t there a nav tower you should be flying into right about now?”

“Nah, I’m grounded. Doctor’s orders. He says to keep inside gravity’s pull well until the internal bleeding stops. So I’m just strolling around, taking in the sights and sounds. And smells,” he added, wrinkling his nose at Torr. “Say, you’re not from around here are you?”

“A metal nose might be more’n you can afford, Crash,” said Black Dan. “So I suggest you keep yours out of other people’s business.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve got great insurance,” said the man named Crash. “Now let me guess,” he said, winking at Torr, “You’re from Agricultural Inspection, and you’re testing this manure for flavor and consistency.”

“I don’t know where he’s from or what he’s doing, but he teleported into my manure, and he’s going to pay me for it,” said Black Dan.

“Is that so? I seem to recall that you milk your fancy-pants out-of-town clients for quite a pretty penny for that… stuff. But then you go leaving it around in the street for anyone to step in.”

Black Dan brandished his metal scoop threateningly. “That’s what thisis for, idiot. I scoop up every speck because it’s worth a lot to my discerning, payingcustomers. And this fellow is gonna pay for every drop he’s got on his pretty little shoes.”

“Well I don’t know how you’re gonna figure that out,” said Crash. “How do you know which of it’s manure and which of it’s mud?”

“There ain’t no mud. It’s all manure.”

“Well if that’s so, then what do your boys there have on their boots?” Crash gestured lazily towards the crusty boots of the onlookers. “Those gents right there are standing awfully close to the pile. Maybe they owe you money, too?”

At this, the crowd, which had been so solidly on Black Dan’s side up to this point, began to mutter and murmur. Clearly they had no interest in paying him for the muck on their shoes. Black Dan darkened visibly. One of the old-timers cleared his throat and said, “Why don’t you let this poor fellow go, Dan? You’ve had your fun. Ain’t no point in prolonging this greenhorn’s misery.”

Black Dan spat at Torr’s feet. “Fine. Take your filthy shoes and get off my street!”

Torr didn’t need to be told twice. He hurriedly hopped out of the pile—not very gracefully, but without falling on his face.

“Come along, stranger; I know where to find what you need,” said the man with the eye-patch, taking him by the arm.

“Do you have a place where I can clean off my clothes?”

“Nah, but I do know a place where shoes are optional.”

“Oh,” said Egan. “Well I’m afraid I’m rather exhausted. I’ve only been here ten minutes, and I’ve already been encased in horse feces, laughed at by a group of strange ruffians, and accosted by an extremely threatening man.”

“Nothing that a night of hard drinking won’t cure!” said Crash.

Egan Torr found himself being rapidly dragged along by his strange new companion, who made surprisingly good time thumping along on his piston leg. He had only a blurred impression of a ramshackle frontier town beneath a high gray dome. The buildings were sloppy erections of plywood and permacrete. The air smelled of stale sweat and machine oil. “I’m afraid I don’t even know your name, sir, or your occupation,” said Torr. “Are you a – a pirate?”

This brought the other man up short. He threw back his head and laughed heartily. A row of platinum teeth gleamed brightly. “Son, you kill me. Me, a pirate! My name is Captain Maxwell Zero—‘Crash’ to some, ‘Maxwell’ to my mother, and ‘Zero’ to my friends. I’m a fast scout pilot, and I can get you in, drop you off and pull you out of the hairiest situation you can name. Don’t be put off by the hardware – I’m just very committed to my calling.”

“Ah,” said Egan Torr delightedly. “Well, you might be just the person I need! I understand that teleportation is highly unreliable in these surrounds.”

“Only if you’re fond of keeping your insides on the right side of your outsides. You looking to get somewhere in the Badlands? Then you’ve found the right man for the job. But I can only get you in. These are dangerous territories, and when I get you there you’ll want someone who knows the lay of the land. Lucky for you there’s no better place to find local help then where we’re going – The Space Bar.”

“Is that a – oh, how clever!” laughed Egan Torr. “I get it!”

“Get what?” asked Crash.

A few blocks more and they found themselves in the alleyway behind a low and dingy establishment. The sign on the door said “Space Bar Employees Only.”

“And friends of employees,” appended Crash, putting his hand on the door. But before he could open it, the door swung wide, and a slim figure in a cowboy hat and leather breeches stepped out. There was a click, and Egan Torr found himself looking down the business end of a long-barreled rifle.

“Maxwell Zero,” said the girl. “Just the idiot I was looking for.”

To Be Continued…

(Part II is here)

Welcome! Willkommen! Bienvenue! Yōkoso!

This blog is the temporary home of the serial space-western, The Ghosts of Blackmoon Rift. That’s a little yarn I’m spinning in my spare time about a gang of misfits searching for an alien spacecraft in the uncharted badlands of a universe on the verge of destruction.

*deep breath*

My original idea was that I would have readers of my LiveJournal determine by vote the setting and plot of a short story, which I would then write. When the dust had cleared, space opera was left standing. Specifically, a space opera set at the end of the universe. With free teleportation and a wild frontier that would do Davey Crockett proud. Oh, and there were multiple lead characters.

It was clear to me that this was not one,single short story.

What started as an exercise in storytelling has since turned into an exercise in genre-bending. It’s science fiction, it’s a space opera, it’s a western. There may also be some romance, tragedy, gothic horror, you name it. I’m making it up as I go along, weaving a tale in short, serialized installments. The plan is to keep posting as long as people keep reading. Your feedback is appreciated!