HUMOROUS STUFF AND YARNS
By Hank Quense
A sampler of his written works
Published by Strange Worlds Publishing at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Hank Quense
All Rights Reserved.
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First Publication
http://strangeworldsonline.com
Table of Contents
Forward
GS Midden
Gundarland: an Introduction
Zaftan Entrepreneurs
The Countess of Chutzpah
Fools Gold: Part One
Patience
Jason and the Argonauts
House of Atreus
Tactical Surprise
FORWARD
I'm an author who writes humorous and satiric fiction in the fantasy and science fiction genres. I also write occasionally about fiction writing.
This small volume contains a number of my stories and parts of novels. It was put together as a sampler for those not familiar with my writing and my weird sense of humor. I challenge you to read these stories and selections without laughing. More weirdness can be found in The Strange Worlds of Hank Quense, a primer for understanding Gundarland and Zaftan 31B, the two worlds where many of my stories take place. It is available as a free download from Smashwords.
GS MIDDEN
(Originally published in Afterburn SF, February 2010)
When Rhonda finished gelling her hair, she opened the door of the powder room and heard her Uncle Sid talking to someone.
A tall, dark-skinned woman in a red tunic and short skirt stood in front of a concerned Sid. The woman had an unbelievable figure and her outfit displayed every curve. Rhonda decided she must be a fashion-challenged time-traveler. No woman in today’s Manhattan would ever wear such an outfit. Red was so last century.
Morning sunlight -- filtered by Manhattan's polluted air and the dirty office window -- reflected from the back of Sid’s bald dome.
The woman pointed a weapon at Rhonda. “You are Rhonda Minestra?”
“Who wants to know?” Rhonda replied with a look of disdain.
Instead of answering, the visitor talked into a wrist device. “Captain, I have completed my mission. Please note my efficiency in the ship’s log.” She paused a moment, then continued. “Affirmative. I have apprehended Rhonda Minestra and Sidney Glower.”
“Hey!” Rhonda exclaimed. “What’re you talkin’ about? Apprehended?”
“Silence. Don’t make me use this blaster.” She sneered at Rhonda. “By the way, what happened to your hair?”
“Orange-green spikes are in at the moment. You obviously don't know that, otherwise you wouldn’t have shown up with those grotesque short braids.”
The woman stiffened and glared at Rhonda.
“Do you have a name?” Sid asked.
“I am Lieutenant Yoo-Hoo. I am the Communication Officer on the GS Midden.”
“What’s GS stand for?” Rhonda asked.
“Garbage Scow.”
“That fits.” Rhonda placed a hand over her mouth and giggled. “I can see you shovelin’ garbage.”
Yoo-Hoo glared a Rhonda.
Rhonda glared back. Until her body started to disintegrate.
# # #
Electronic equipment filled the room except for a platform where the three of them materialized. The ship had a strange smell, a combination of something dead masked by an overdose of flowery scent.
Yoo-Hoo walked over to a control panel, but kept the weapon pointed at them. Sid took a step off the platform and looked startled when his pants fell to his knees.
“Adjust your belt,” Yoo-Hoo said. “The matter translocator removed some unnecessary poundage.”
“Hmm.” He patted the top of his head. “Can it regrow hair?”
“You don’t have a hair problem.” Yoo-Hoo waved the weapon in Rhonda’s direction. “She does.”
Rhonda ground her teeth and stepped off the platform. An alarm bell sounded.
“Give me your purse.” Yoo-Hoo held out her left hand. “Something in it set off the alarm.” She took the bag and rummaged through it.
Rhonda wanted to grab a handful of her hair and yank it. How dare the woman paw through her handbag.
Yoo-Hoo held up a set of brass knuckles and raised an eyebrow.
“My father gave me those on my twenty-first birthday.”
“And this?” She pulled out a slim knife.
“A present from a nice old man in Sicily.” The nice old man was a gangster chieftain who had hired her father to whack a meddlesome politician. Rhonda accompanied her father on that trip to meet some of her cousins.
Yoo-hoo opened a drawer and dropped Rhonda’s stuff into it. “That way.” She waved a hand to an open hatchway to their left while handing Rhonda her purse.
Passing through the hatch brought them to the flight deck. Display monitors covered the front wall, some showing views of Earth and others showing technical data. The paint had flaked off much of the walls and ceiling. Cables ran over and between consoles and equipment racks. To the right was a long bank of equipment with two chairs. One was empty, but a humanoid lounged in the other chair. The creature was tall, angular and had pointy ears. In the center of the room, a stout human sat in a swivel chair wearing a blue jumpsuit that was a few sizes too small. He gave Rhonda a friendly grin. “Ms. Minestra. How nice of you to agree to help us. And you brought your assistant. Even better.”
“I didn’t agree to anything.” Rhonda frowned as she pointed to Yoo-Hoo. “She kidnapped us.”
“I’m Captain Korque.” He brushed aside Rhonda’s assertion. “Lt. Yoo-Hoo is very dedicated and sometimes is a bit difficult.”
“I followed your orders,” Yoo-Hoo said in a sarcastic voice.
“Kidnapping is a Federal offense,” Sid said. “If you return us immediately, we won’t press charges. I assure you, the military is already tracking you.”
“Your military doesn’t know we exist,” the alien said. “Our shields absorb the signals put out by your primitive radar systems.”
“That is Commander Spark, my Science Officer.”
“A very unscientific Science Officer,” Yoo-Hoo said.
Spark made a gesture that Rhonda assumed was obscene on the alien’s home planet.
Korque cleared his throat. “In case you’re wondering why we chose you – may I call you Rhonda – we found your name and space/time coordinates in the Intergalactic Travelers Guide. Several references said that you were very helpful to other travelers. And here you are.”
“I’d like to see that,” Sid said.
Rhonda nodded in agreement. A number of aliens and time-travelers had shown up in the office because of this guide.
Spark turned to a console and punched some keys. A monitor changed display and a long string of hyphenated numbers and symbols filled half of the screen. Underneath, a small organization chart showed Rhonda’s name – as president of the Life-Style Consultant business -- and Sid as her assistant. Beneath the chart, strange words filled the rest of the screen. The words looked vaguely familiar to Rhonda, like a parody of real writing.
“That chart is wrong,” Sid said. “I own the business.”
“Not likely,” Spark said. “Travelers Guide is renown for its accuracy. It verifies every piece of data.”
“But it’s wrong,” Sid snapped.
“Silence.” Korque scowled at Sid. “We are not here to debate the accuracy of a chart. Any more arguments and I’ll have you removed from the bridge.”
Sid made a face but kept silent.
“What’s all the stuff on top and bottom?” Rhonda asked.
“On top are the time/space coordinates of your location,” Spark said. “The bottom contains particulars about the help you provided to other travelers.”
“As to the reason you’re here, Rhonda,” Korque said, “we need your help.” Korque paused a moment then continued. “We hope you and your assistant can develop a plan to solve our problem.”
Rhonda raised an eyebrow.
“We need to find a source of fuel on your primitive world.”
Rhonda felt competing sensations of exhilaration and confusion. Exhilaration because the crew believed that she was the boss, not Sid. It was an ideal opportunity to practice her management and problem-solving skills. After all, she had a degree in business from junior college. The confusion came from the dozen or more questions she had. Something wasn’t kosher here. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Ships never run out of fuel in the movies ‘cause they use atomic power and things like that. How come you need fuel?”
“We have special needs,” Spark said.
“Like what?” Sid asked.
Garbage,” Korque said. “Our propulsion units burn garbage.”
“You can’t extract fuel from an asteroid?” Sid asked. “Or suck molecules from space?”
“Our propulsion units only consume garbage.” Korque shrugged.
“I don’t get it.” Rhonda’s confusion deepened. “You guys are from the future, right?”
“A few thousand years,” Korque said. “We think.”
“Our Science Officer screwed up,” Yoo-Hoo said. “Again.”
Spark gave her a foul look.
Rhonda half-closed her eyes and stared at Korque.
“I see you don’t believe us.” Korque sighed. “This type of ship picks up garbage at Space Fleet bases. Then we cruise to the next base using the garbage as fuel. At the moment, we’re low on garbage. So we want you to help us refuel.”
Rhonda tapped her foot. The explanation didn’t do much to relieve her confusion and now anxiety replaced her exhilaration. Her father had taught her to listen to the ‘good’ reason people used to explain things and then ferret out the ‘real’ reason, the one people didn’t talk about. She had the 'good' reason from Korque but she was missing the 'real' reason. Her instincts told her it was a whopper. Her instincts also smelled a rich reward if she figured everything out.
“It’s a simple request,” Yoo-Hoo said. “What part don’t you understand?”
“The part I don’t understand,” Rhonda’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “is why an expensive space ship would do nothin’ but fly around to get rid of garbage.” Perhaps, her observation would get them to reveal the real reason.
Korque looked embarrassed as he glanced at his crew. Spark shrugged and Yoo-Hoo gave a slight nod.
“Some of the garbage is converted to coal. The rest of it is as burned as fuel.” Korque gave a small smile. “Coal is carbon-based, you see.”
“No, I don’t see. Give me a break.” Rhonda smacked her forehead with the palm of her right hand. “First garbage and now coal?” Korque bit his lip and Rhonda knew she had them close to spilling the truth. To get at that truth, she would have to use some tough negotiating techniques. “I don’t think we can help you. You need someone else. Someone who will believe all this garbage you people are shovelin’ at me.”
Sid coughed and gave Rhonda a fish-eyed look.
“I knew she was useless,” Yoo-Hoo said. “I say throw them into the brig for a while. I bet they change their tune after that.”
# # #
The brig was a pair of rooms at the end of a short corridor secured by a barred entry. Each room contained a cot, a toilet and an unlocked door. As soon as Yoo-Hoo left, Sid hissed, “Are you crazy? Go along with these nut cases. It’s the only way we’ll ever get back home.”
“They’re connin’ us. Come on, Uncle Sid. Can’t you see how phony their story is? They travel way back into the past. Why? They’re obviously part of a military group. What’s their mission? And why does this ship turn garbage into coal?” Rhonda waved a finger at Sid. “They’re lyin’ or at least hidin’ somethin’.”
“I don’t think the answers will do us any good.”
“I think the answers will make us rich.” Rich enough for Rhonda to achieve her ambitions. Her father, an accomplished hit man, was getting too old for field work. It was only a matter of time before he was arrested or killed while fulfilling a contract. Since he refused to acknowledge his age problem, Rhonda’s only hope was to get him an alternative job. For that she needed a big chunk of money: big enough to open a technical institute to train the next generation of hit men. With her father on the faculty, the school would be a success because every wannabe hit man in the country knew her father’s name; he was a living legend.
She also had timing and opportunity on her side. Federal agencies, fearful of Congressional investigations, were outsourcing all their dirty work. Every month, her father got offers from the Feds to whack a disgruntled employee or someone who had leaked secret intelligence. And then there was the burgeoning new market for contractors who could snatch people and fly them to other countries where the prisoner could be interrogated without worrying about Constitutional or human rights. The time was ripe for her academy. This crew would provide her with the wherewithal to get started.
“Why do you think you can get rich from these guys?” Sid paced the small room.
“If I get some answers, I can come up with a plan. And the plan will involve more than refuelin’ ‘cause these guys are in a lotta other trouble. They get my plan and we get compensated for our efforts. And we don’t get paid in coal, either.”
# # #
Yoo-Hoo released them a few hours later. “The Captain says you can eat with us. I’d have given you bread and water in your cells.”
“That’s why you’re a lowly lieutenant and he’s the captain.” Rhonda smiled at Yoo-Hoo. “He makes better decisions.”
The crew ate their meals at a folding table in the flight deck. The food, synthetic according to Spark, had a whiff of turpentine about it.
“You realize that I can keep you in those cells indefinitely, don’t you?” Korque said. “So I hope you have come to your senses.”
“Sorry.” Rhonda helped herself to a bowl of artificial-looking salad. “I can’t help you unless I understand the situation, and right now, I’m confused by all the half-truths you’ve dumped on me.”
Sid coughed and grimaced.
Korque and Spark exchanged a brief look.
“All right,” Korque said. “We haven’t been completely honest with you. A short time ago, we resigned from the Fleet and became independent contractors.”
“Sounds like mutiny to me,” Sid said.
“Damn right,” Yoo-Hoo snarled. “Galactic Fleet treats us like trash. Lousy pay. No transfers. No promotions. We’re not taking it any more.”
“After we announced our resignation, a battle cruiser chased us and we flew into a wormhole to escape. That’s how we ended up far into the past and in this seedy part of the galaxy. We need a plan that will allow us to return to the future and escape punishment, and you two are the only ones close enough to help us.”
“The Captain and I want to rejoin the Fleet,” Spark said. “If we can avoid court-martial.”
“You see,” Korque continued, “we intended to make a demonstration, nothing more. But, Yoo-Hoo’s rhetoric got us a bit enflamed and we went too far.”
“This is so typical of the Fleet.” Yoo-Hoo crossed her arms and glared at Korque. “Instead of accepting responsibility for your actions, you place all the blame on the lowest ranking member.”
Rhonda’s brain flashed a danger signal. This was much deeper than she had anticipated. Refueling wasn’t too difficult. Absolving them from a mutiny was an entirely different level of complexity. Her dreams of getting her father out of field work had just crashed and burned.
“So you want to take garbage from Earth so you can continue your travels?” Sid said. “Is that right?”
“Earth?” Korque looked stunned.
“Did you say Earth?” Spark’s pointy ears wiggled furiously.
“They’re trying to fool us,” Yoo-Hoo said.
Rhonda’s despair evaporated. There was yet more to the story. “What’s so surprisin’ about Earth?”
“Earth is a legend,” Korque said.
“It’s a myth,” Yoo-Hoo said. “An old-wives tale.”
“If it does exist,” Spark added, “we don’t know where it is.”
“But the Travelers Guide told you we lived on Earth,” Sid said. “Didn’t it?”
“Actually,” Spark replied, “all it contains is the time/space coordinates. It doesn’t give a name which, after all, is a local convention that can change over time. Besides, different races give different names to the same planets. To avoid confusion, the Guide ignores place names.”
“How can you not know where Earth is?” Rhonda asked Korque. “Aren’t you a human?”
“Hold on a second.” Spark left the table and went to his console. He tapped keys for a few seconds, then said, “Ahh. Here it is. The Fleet Central Library was destroyed during the Cola Wars. Earth’s location was in the Library’s data base. That was a thousand years before my time, and since then, extensive searches have been made to find Earth. Without success.” He tapped some more keys. “The accepted consensus is that Earth is either a myth or, if it ever existed, it was also destroyed in the Cola Wars.”
“The Cola Wars are far into Earth’s present future.” Korque rubbed his chin. “It’s possible that Earth exists in this time/space, but not in ours.”
Rhonda had trouble sitting still. She had plan. A good plan. She smiled at Korque.
“What?” he said, noticing her smile.
“I can help you.”
“Let’s hear it,” Yoo-Hoo said.
Rhonda ignored Yoo-Hoo and said to Korque, “What’s in it for us? We save you and all we get is a handshake. I don’t think so.”
“How about we don’t throw you out an airlock?” Yoo-Hoo sneered at Rhonda.
Korque stared at a distant bulkhead. He cleared his throat and looked at Rhonda. “Are diamonds valuable on Earth?”
Sid’s mouth dropped open.
Rhonda blinked in surprise.
Yoo-Hoo made a rude noise.
“You see,” Spark said, “coal and diamonds are both made from carbon atoms but they have different crystal structures. We produce the coal so we can process it into a particular type of diamond. It has special lattice design for use as quantum chip filters.”
“It’s a military application,” Korque cracked his knuckles, “but we can also make a commercial product. Tell us your plan. If we like it, we’ll make you a pile of diamonds.”
“Okay.” Rhonda took a deep breath. “First the refueling. Can your monitors get close up on the surface? Like New York City?”
“Sure.” Spark zoomed a monitor on Manhattan.
“Go south, to the largest island in the bay.”
With the monitor showing Staten Island, Rhonda said, “See that big green area inna middle of the island? That’s where you can get fuel. It’s the biggest garbage dump inna world. It’s closed now, so all that garbage is covered with soil. But it isn’t very far beneath the surface.”
“All right.” Korque nodded. “What about the plan?”
“When you return to your time, don’t mention the mutiny. You only talk about finding Earth. You tell everyone that the three of you put together a study on where it must be and you left to find it.”
“That’s the dumbest plan I ever heard.” Yoo-Hoo glared at Rhonda.
Actually,” Spark said, “it has merit. But we’d have to come back with incontrovertible proof of Earth’s existence.”
Korque tapped his fingers on the table. Finally, he said, “We better visit the surface to see what we can find.” Korque looked around the table. “You,” he pointed to Sid, “will stay here with Yoo-Hoo.”
“As a hostage?” Sid asked.
“Whatever.” Korque shrugged.
# # #
The matter translocator sent Rhonda, Korque and Spark to a spot surrounded by trees and shrubs in the southwest corner of Central Park, near Columbus Circle. Their mission was to find something that could be used as proof of Earth’s existence.
Korque’s jump suit -- now a few sizes too large -- flapped in the mild breeze.
Rhonda caught the strange look some New Yorkers threw her way. She checked her hair in a compact mirror and gasped at her six-inch thick Afro hair-do. It was so old-fashioned! “I’m gonna kill her when I get back on the ship.”
“The captain won’t let me kill Yoo-Hoo,” Spark said. “Can I watch you do it?”
They left the park and stopped on a corner to wait for the traffic light to change before crossing Central Park West. Spark placed both hands on a traffic control cabinet. “Implausible. This device is self-aware and yearns for more meaningful duties. This is it, Captain.” Spark grinned at them. “I’ll write my thesis on this phenomenon.”
“Give it up, Spark,” Korque replied.
“A doctoral thesis?” Rhonda asked.
“High School Equivalency Certificate,” Korque said. “This will be his seventeenth attempt. He won his Science Officer rating in a card game.”
Spark took a device from a belt pouch. He saw Rhonda looking at it. “It’s a quadri-dimensional receptor. I’ll use it to record documentation for the thesis.”
“Help!” a woman screamed. “He’s gotta remote control for a bomb.” She swung a large purse and hit Spark between the shoulder blades. “He’s gonna blow up the statue of Columbus.”
More people yelled, screamed or waved fists.
Rhonda grabbed Korque’s arm. “Get us back to the ship. Quick.” Rhonda wanted no part of a riot. Not without the brass knuckles that Yoo-Hoo had refused to give back.
Korque pulled out his communicator.
“There’s another one!” A man screamed and pointed to Korque.
Korque keyed the communicator as Rhonda leaned close to hear.
Spark defended himself as best he could against the seething mob. Many of the people seemed unconcerned about the reason for the uproar and used it to exercise at the expense of the other pedestrians.
Police sirens wailed from somewhere south on Eighth Avenue.
“You have reached Lt. Yoo-Hoo’s message service,” a sexy male voice said. “She is presently under her hair treatment device and will be unavailable for . . . fifteen minutes and . . . ten seconds. Please leave a message.”
Rhonda looked around, trying to find an escape route. A sea of milling, shouting, shoving people surrounded her. Two police cars pulled up. The mob parted like the Red Sea for Moses and a squad of NYPD’s finest ran through to tackle the three of them.
Within minutes, they were in the back of a paddy wagon that smelled of mildew and burnt oil. Rhonda winched at the clank of the door as it slammed shut. Foreboding filled her mind. She hadn’t found the proof she needed. Another thought jarred her already damaged psyche. Sooner or later, her companions would be exposed as time travelers, and the government would disappear them. They would be drained of information, but never released, their existence forever a secret. She glanced at Korque who seemed unconcerned.
Spark, meanwhile, befriended a hitchhiking cockroach and mind-blended with the creature. “Astonishing,” he said. “This cockroach is intelligent and is descended from a long line of warriors who invaded this planet ten thousand years ago. Their pre-invasion intelligence didn’t warn them how big the inhabitants were.”
“Thanks for sharing that,” Rhonda said, “but I’m more concerned about getting away from the police.”
Spark and Korque ignored her comment.
“What do they call this planet?” Korque asked.
“Their name translates as ‘The place where big feet fall from the sky’. I’ve changed my mind Captain. I’ll write my thesis on this bug.”
Rhonda’s body began tingling. Korque smiled. Yoo-Hoo must be finished with her hair.
# # #
As soon as she reassembled, Rhonda stepped off the platform and took out her compact mirror to check her hair. It was back in its rainbow-hued spike mode. She glared at Yoo-Hoo and snarled, “If you ever mess with my hair again, you’ll regret it.”
Yoo-Hoo raised an eyebrow. “Whatever are you talking about?” She now wore her hair in a blonde pouf. “The Translocator needs adjustments. If you have a complaint take it up with Spark. He’s in charge of maintenance.”
“Spark should look at your hair treatment device. It needs a lot more than maintenance.”
“Ladies, we have a more serious problem than your hair.” Korque led them into the flight deck. “Your plan is a failure, so far,” he told Rhonda.
“I can use some help,” Rhonda replied. “There must be somethin’ about Earth that is common knowledge. Somethin’ that everyone will agree is ‘Earthy.’ A flower. A sport. A custom. If we have that, we’ll know what to search for instead of wandering around blind.”
“Yukk!” Yoo-Hoo stomped on a cockroach. “Who brought that back?”
“How dare you kill an innocent creature.” Spark howled in anguish. “Now I can’t write my thesis.”
Yoo-Hoo made a rude noise.
“It was a simple mistake, Spark,” Korque said. “I don’t want to hear a tirade about it.”
“I demand that Yoo-Hoo be lynched, and then court-martialed.”
Yoo-Hoo assumed a pugilistic stance and threw air punches in Spark’s direction.
To Rhonda’s astonishment, Korque drew his blaster, flipped a switch and fired. A blue beam of light leaped from the weapon and attached itself to Spark’s chest. He fell to the floor and kicked his legs spasmodically.
Rhonda watched in horror.
With the beam still attached to his chest, Spark giggled, guffawed and chuckled while writhing all over the deck. Tears streamed from his eyes. After an interval, Korque switched off the beam and Spark rolled into a sitting position.
“What just happened?” Sid asked.
“It’s the only way to shut him up once he gets on a roll.” Korque held up his blaster. “Tickle setting.”
“My sides hurt,” Spark said wiping away his tears. “Let me search the data bases and see if I can find what Rhonda wants.”
Ten minutes later, Spark pounded the surface of his console. “I found it!”
“What is it?” Korque asked.
“It says here, in a record from a very old data base, that Earth had a legendary meal that tourists raved about.”
Rhonda grinned. That was what she needed. No matter what type of cuisine this meal was, it would be found in New York City, the most culturally diverse city in the world.
“Gularch and Goodness.” Spark spun around on his chair. “It appears to be a sandwich and a drink.”
“That should be easy to verify,” Korque said.
Rhonda groaned out loud.
# # #
“It’s a parking garage.” Rhonda indicated the spot on a close-up view of Manhattan. “Land us on the roof and we won’t be spotted. I hope.” The garage was surrounded by the buildings of New York University and close to the Little Italy section where she wanted to search because of the area’s many restaurants.
Korque and Spark accompanied Rhonda. She had no idea what she was looking for other than food and drink, but if she wasn’t successful, she wouldn’t earn the diamonds and that would mean she couldn’t start a school. If she didn’t start training some new hit men, the Feds may take to offshore outsourcing for their dirty work, and that was bad. In her view, Americans had a right to be whacked by other Americans, not by foreigners here on a work permit.
She walked through Washington Square Park. It was filled with baby buggies pushed by mothers or fathers out enjoying the mild weather. The dog run was a frenzy of unleashed canines who wrestled and chased each other while some stood around sniffing to get better acquainted.
Past the poured-concrete chess tables at the entrance to the park, she went east and turned south on Lafayette Street. As she strolled, her eyes roamed the houses and shops seeking a clue. A bus roared northward and she read the ads on the side for the same reason.
“Do you have a plan?” Korque’s voice had a hint of annoyance. “Or are we just exercising?”
“Of course I have a plan, but it’ll take some time to find what we’re lookin’ for.”
“I don’t think she knows what the meal is,” Spark said.
“Is this true?” Korque asked.
“Gularch and Goodness sound familiar. I think they're corruptions of the names from this time. So we have to hunt for somethin’ close to those names.” Rhonda thought her improvisation sounded pretty good.
“That makes sense,” Korque replied.
They left Lafayette to take Mulberry Street into the heart of Little Italy. Many small shops and restaurants filled the ground floor of the three- and four-story town houses and Rhonda searched the signs and menus. She sensed that she didn’t have much time before Korque decided the hunt was futile.
As they walked south, the ethnic flavor of the area changed from Italian to Chinese. Many of the signs were also in Chinese characters, preventing her from reading them. Street lights came on as dusk settled on the city.
Mulberry Street crossed Canal Street, a heavily trafficked east-west thoroughfare. Across Canal -- the traditional dividing line between Little Italy and Chinatown -- a fast food restaurant stood alongside a mini-market. Rhonda’s eyes flicked between the two, her mind wrapping around a tenuous idea.
“I think you are about to have a dinin’ experience.” She smiled at Korque. “Follow me.” She dodged the traffic and crossed the street. “Wait here.” She pointed to an empty sidewalk table where customers could flavor their food with auto, bus and truck pollution. She entered the restaurant and returned a few minutes later carrying a paper sack only to go into the mini-market. When she came out, she carried the paper sack in one hand and a four-pack in the other.
She sat down and showed Korque and Spark the corporate logo on the paper bag.“ ‘Gularch’ must be a corruption of a golden arch.” She held up a black can of stout and pointed to the label. “Pretty close to ‘Goodness,’ don’t you think?”
Later, they found a partially deserted parking lot and translocated to the ship with five dozen burgers and three cases of stout charged to Rhonda’s credit card.
# # #
Back on the Midden, Korque was euphoric as he described events to Yoo-Hoo and Sid.
Rhonda was exhilarated. She had solved the problem, her first chance to show her determination and resourcefulness. Her reward would save her father from further field work. Everything had worked out just as she had hoped they would. “Can we go home now?” she asked Korque.
“Not yet. We have some celebrating to do. We’ll order the cuisine computer to make something special and we’ll open a case of stout. After all, we really only need a few cans to establish the veracity of our claim.”
“So, when can we leave?” Sid asked.
“In the morning.” He rummaged through a drawer in his command chair and took out a small metallic token. He handed it to Rhonda. “Put this where you want the diamonds delivered. Yoo-Hoo will manufacturer some commercial diamonds after dinner and she’ll send them down to the spot marked by the token.”
Rhonda felt an small itch of irritation. She didn’t like the idea of being dependent on Yoo-Hoo for anything. She didn’t trust the woman.
# # #
Early in the morning, Rhonda and Sid arrived back in the office. Sid’s phone display indicated he had a dozen voice messages. “I wonder what happened while we were gone,” he said as he turned on the TV. A harried reporter jabbered about a breaking story. “Officials refuse to discuss the situation claiming they are still investigating what happened to the three thousand tons of garbage that disappeared from the closed landfill on Staten Island. Another perplexing question is how that much garbage could vanish overnight. We have with us in the studio, a rubbish expert --”
“I guess the Midden is on its way.” Sid turned off the TV.
“They better not have left yet.” Rhonda placed Korque’s token on her desk.
A few minutes later, the token disappeared and was replaced by a metal box.
“Ohhmygawd!” Rhonda screeched. “Look at the size of it. We’re rich, Uncle Sid.” She opened the box. On top were her brass knuckles and her knife.
Sid walked over and removed a sheet of paper. “Looks like some sort of instructions.”
Rhonda peered into the box and snarled a curse. “That bitch!” She picked up a lump of coal.
Sid read from the paper. “Place the coal in a furnace set at a thousand degrees Centigrade at forty kilobars of pressure for seven-and-a-half standard years. Do not peek.”
GUNDARLAND: AN INTRODUCTION
(Originally published in Tales From Gundarland, May 2010)
Author's note: Gundarland is the setting for a collection of short stories and novellas. It also the setting in a trilogy of novels soon to be unleashed on the unsuspecting public. The title of the trilogy is The Drakin Chronicles. Since Gundarland is a bit unusual, I prepared this into to acquaint readers with the planet. It is commonly believed that the planet Gundar is located in a parallel universe not to far from out own universe. In fact, it is only a wormhole or two away.
The planet was named Gundar after the omniscient god who accidentally created the universe with an explosive sneeze caused by snorting a larger-than-average dose of His favorite recreational powder. The nodules of spittle flew through space and eventually solidified into suns, planets, comets and other celestial bodies.
Scientific authorities called this event the Big Achoo. Medical authorities argued that infectious diseases were the result of this unsanitary beginning. Religious authorities countered that such talk was blasphemous and that the medical authorities should accept infectious diseases as Gundar's holy will. Ordinary folk thought the authorities had too much free time on their hands and ought to get jobs.
Gundarland is the largest land mass on the planet. Populated by diverse races such as dwarfs, humans, elves, half-pints, yuks and a few lesser races, these disparate races live cheek-by-jowl in many cases and get along with no more than the usual interracial hostility.
At one time, the yuks roamed all over the island subjecting everyone to their boorish behavior and crude manners. The other races mostly put up with them, but it was a brave hostess who invited a yuk to a dinner party. They ate with their fingers because they always pilfered the cutlery as soon as they sat down at the table. Eventually, the yuks were driven into the southwest corner of the island, a land of marshes and mountain deemed worthless by land developers.
Religion has always played a big part in many people's lives. The biggest festival occurred in the spring when Snotism celebrated the birth of the universe. Know as the Sacred Snot-Fest, the ritual culminated in everyone simultaneously inhaling crushed pepper to generate a giant sneeze. Doctors loved the festival; many of them made more money in the month following the Snot-Fest than they did for the rest of the year. Oddly enough, the priests all wore masks during the ceremony.
By ancient tradition, many warriors took a double major when they studied the arts of war. The double major came in handy during the occasional outbreaks of peace. Thus, in the early days, knight-accountants, warrior-chefs and soldier-lawyers roamed the countryside seeking combat and/or clients.
The population has always been intrigued by magic. As a consequence, wizards were held in high regard, even the incompetent ones. Wizard schools offered double majors as well as the combat schools. At first, the secondary courses were perfunctory, but then the dukes began installing wizards in positions of power on the theory that if a wizard couldn't figure out a solution to a problem, they could always magic the problem out of existence. The practice of appointing wizards continued long after that theory proved to be catastrophically wrong. The wizard schools once again took notice and kept increasing the importance of the secondary courses until wizardry became the lesser of the two curricula. Soon, graduates could barely compose spells and frequently didn't have enough magical power to blow their noses.
Historically, the country was divided into a number of independent provinces ruled by dukes, warlords and an occasional madman. The principal occupation of these province leaders was making war on the neighbors. These constant wars provided employment for many dwarf warriors since the dukes prided themselves on the quantity and quality of their ax-dwarfs. Many dwarf families were proud of the generations of warriors who fought exclusively for Duke X or Warlord Y. These families ignored the fact that almost all the warriors died at an unnaturally young age.
ZAFTAN ENTREPRENEURS
Author's note: Zaftans are an alien race who occupy the same universe as Gundar. It was only a matter of time until these smelly, vicious creatures discovered the planet and exposed the inhabitants to their strange customs. The Zaftans will figure prominently in a forthcoming trilogy, called oddly enough, The Zaftan Trilogy. This is opening chapter in Book One, Zaftan Entrepreneurs. The novel is scheduled to become available at the end of 2010.
The solar system flaunted unpretentiousness. It existed in a shabby neighborhood at the raggedy end of an unremarkable galaxy and had a common yellow dwarf at its core with five planets in orbit.
Beyond the solar system, space expanded outward with nothing to see except the pinpoints of white light coming from distant suns, a portrait of tiny jewels set on a black velvet cloth. The solar system centered a huge sphere of nothingness.
For eons, the system's peaceful vista existed undisturbed, unblemished and unvisited except for an occasional meteor or comet.
The only source of color came from the second planet. It sparkled in the light from the sun: blues from the oceans, greens from vegetation, reds, blacks and browns from mountains, whites from the clouds. They all combined to form a pleasant scene, especially when viewed against the blackness of space.
Near the solar system's outer edge, a gravity ripple appeared breaking the smoothness of space. When the ripple grew into a wave it broke apart and a space ship appeared shattering the serenity of the panorama.
The ship could charitably be described as ugly, but that failed to account for the unsymmetrical and repulsive sight. The paint had peeled away in many areas showing bare metal in various stages of rust. Parts of the ship appeared cylindrical, other parts spherical, suggesting the ship had been made by cannibalizing a number of ships and melding various parts together without a master blueprint. Grafted onto the exterior skin, these additions had different sizes, shapes and metals. They resembled burn blisters on skin. Antennae sprouted everywhere. It was as if the designers couldn't make up their minds about when to stop modifying the ship. As a result, it resembled a traveling junk yard.
The ship rolled, pitched and yawed in an uncontrolled manner while it plowed through the distant reaches of the solar system. Gradually, the gyrations slowed and stopped, leaving the ship motionless in space, as if decided how to further besmirch the prettiness of the scene.
A legend on the side of the ship, in large blood-red letters, read Black Carrion Flower. Additional smaller lettering read, Furshtanker Inc, Zaftan 31B.
Inside the ship, Captain Yunta groaned on her reclining couch in the small flight deck. Along with another pair of couches, two control consoles and view screens filled the front, electronic gear took up the left side and read-out devices were everywhere, even hanging from the ceiling. The flight engineer and the navigational shaman sat at the front consoles while the captain's couch occupied the space behind them and to the right. The three zaftans stood seven feet tall and weighed over four hundred pounds. Their grayish-black, rubber-like skin oozed green slime. On the top of the body, over a cruel beak a pair of eye stalks protruded and held black eyeballs with red irises. Eight tentacles served as arms or legs. None of the zaftans wore clothes because the slime made most cloths smolder and catch fire. The surfaces of the couches were treated with fireproofing chemicals to prevent a shipboard catastrophe.
Rank medallions hung from their necks; steel for the engineer, bronze for the shaman and gold for the captain. In addition, the engineer wore earphones that covered the holes zaftans used as audio receptors.
Yunta, like all zaftan females, had three wombs and right now, she suffered from triple menstruation. Chemicals and hormones waged war in her bloodstream producing three headaches. The first one settled in the area behind her eye stalks, the second near her right audio receptor and the third at the base of her head where it joined the main body.
Once the ship became motionless, Yunta looked at the forward view screen. Among other objects, it showed a small planet with definite bluish tint. Yunta tried to recall if she had ever seen another planet with that unusual color. She couldn't. "Drek," she said addressing the navigational shaman. "Where are we?"
"Drek is still in his coma, Captain," the engineer responded.
"Nonsense. If he was in a navigational coma, he would not be snoring. Wake him up."
The engineer reached over with a tentacle and shook the shaman. The navigator's eye stalks bobbed as he snorted and pushed himself up slightly.
"Where are we, Drek?" Yunta asked again.
Drek looked at a monitor on the console in front of him. After a brief interval, he replied, "I have no idea."
"How can you not know where we are?" Yunta snapped. She now regretted hiring a second-rate shaman to shave a bit off the ship's expense account and thus increase the profit margins.
"My farsight spotted an unknown worm hole and I drove the ship into it. Part of our mission is to explore new galactic areas, is it not?" Zaftan navigators put themselves into a shamanistic coma and let their minds roam far away from the ship seeking the safest course while piloting the ship with mental commands.
Drek's voice had an edge that Yunta found offensive. On the other hand, she found everything offensive these days. "Well, find some known stars and calculate our position."
"Captain," the engineer said, "this planet looks interesting."
"In what way?" Yunta rotated her eye stalks from the shaman to the back of the engineer's torso.
"It appears to have a varied geographical makeup. Using the long range scanner, I make out mountains, rivers, marshes and forests. This could be a good place to explore."
"Drek. Put us into a stable orbit so we can get a better analysis of the surface." She called up a mental picture of the voyage's abysmal profit and loss chart. If this planet didn't yield the minerals they sought, the voyage was doomed to show a loss and that meant the end of her career aspirations. She thought of herself as a corporate tree struggling in a forest of sap-sucking corporate bureaucrats. Profits would fertilize her tree allowing it to grow bigger and stronger. Losses would lead to infestation of bugs and diseases. For the first time in her career, Yunta faced failure. She would be hard pressed to eradicate a negative performance assessment from this voyage.
She massaged the slime by her aching audio receptor. It didn't lessen the pain. Again, she looked at the planet in the forward view screen. Perhaps her luck was about to change. She and the ship were certainly overdue for a break.
# # #
On the planet's surface, MacDrakin Gemfinder knelt in mine shaft number one. The tunnel was cramped even for a dwarf. On aching knees, he swung a small pickax one more time, sending a handful of dirt and rock tumbling to the ground. The heat in the tunnel was almost unbearable and sweat poured down his face in rivulets. He wore only leather breeches and a thick layer of dirt. MacDrakin dropped the ax, picked up a shovel and loaded the material into two leather sacks. In a muscle-straining crouch, he hauled them to the surface. He dropped the sacks and stretched to loosen up his back and shoulders. He lifted his arms to allow the slight breeze and the midday summer sun to play over his compact, muscular body. It felt wonderful to be out of the gloomy mine shaft and in the sunlight.
Once his muscles relaxed, he hefted the sacks and carried them to the sluice on the side of the mountain. He poured the sacks into a trough constructed out of wood and stiff netting then opened a sluice gate. Water from an underground spring cascaded over the dirt and washed it through the netting. When only rocks remained, MacDrakin shut off the water. He picked through them and tossed most over the side of the mountain, leaving a dozen behind. He took each remaining rock and rubbed it between his fingers. All but two he threw away. The last two showed a bit of green under a patina of stubborn dirt. After some more cleaning, he held two fine emeralds in his palm. Not a bad haul for a half-day's work.
He carried the gems to the small hut he called home. Along the way, he passed mine shafts two and three. Two wasn't as deep as number one, but had already disgorged a few emeralds. Number three wasn't deep at all and showed no promise of gems. All he had found so far in the shaft was seams of coal.
His land, in the family for years, sat on a level patch and covered an acre or so of rocky ground in front of the face of the mountain that soared a thousand feet above MacDrakin's head. In the opposite direction, a path led to the base of the mountain five hundred feet below.
The hut, ten foot by ten foot, was furnished in typical bachelor fashion. Two chairs huddled under a wobbly table and an unmade cot lay opposite the fireplace used for cooking and heating. Clothes hung from hooks on one wall. A battle ax hung over the fireplace and several storage chests were piled haphazardly in a corner. Shelves held a few food items including a bag of coffee and an almost empty sack of flour. A single window, without shades or curtains, overlooked the road leading down the mountain. The view from the window showed smoke from cooking fires rising into the sky. The smoke came from Skensfirth, the closest town, three miles away.
MacDrakin pulled back a small rug to expose a trap door and removed a metal strongbox. He pawed through the loose dirt at the bottom of the hole and uncovered a leather pouch. He took it to the table and spilled the contents. The dozens of emeralds that rolled around the table made him smile. It would soon be time to take a trip to the capital, Dun Hythe, to sell the gems. This time, he would take the train from Ashton. On a newly opened extension of the main line, it reached Dun Hythe in a day. On his last trip to the capital, his pony took a week each way.
Meanwhile, he was out of supplies as well as cash. He selected a small and inferior green stone and set it aside. He reburied the pouch and covered it with the strongbox. To satisfy any thieves, the box contained four badly flawed emeralds.
After scribbling a list of needed supplies on a scrap of paper, he took a towel and a bar of soap and walked back to the sluice. In a few minutes he had rerouted the spring from the sluice to an overhead spray he used as a shower.
Back in the hut, he sat at the table and trimmed his beard using a hand mirror, then worked it into the traditional three braids beloved by dwarfdom. Each braid ended in a bit of ribbon. He dressed in a clean wool kilt, a leather vest and ankle-high boots. The kilt and beard braid ribbons displayed his clan colors: red, green and black.
He paused for a moment to gaze in reverence at the shiny battle ax over the fireplace. It was ancient and originally belonged to the legendary dwarf hero, Drakin, who had founded the clan and after whom he was named. Family tradition called for the first-born son in each generation to carry the hero's name. He was the thirteenth MacDrakin, a line that went back hundreds of years. Another tradition was that when the new MacDrakin came of age, he was given the hero's weapon by the older MacDrakin. So far, none of his relatives had spawned a new MacDrakin so the ax would remain his for many years.
He had inherited the land and the mines from his father and he carried on the gem mining tradition that gave the family the name 'Gemfinder.' He found mining more than a bit boring, but he had nothing else to do. What he yearned to do was to take the battle ax and go on an adventure. He sighed. The days of adventuring were long gone, a thing of the past.
He took down the ax, strapped it into a harness and settled the harness on his back. The weapon's handle extended over his shoulder where he could readily grab it. Not that he expected to use the ax, not on the ride to Skensfirth. The weapon was simply too valuable to leave in the hut unattended. After he saddled and mounted his pony, he smiled in anticipation. He hadn't gone to town in ten days. Living on the side of a mountain was lonely and he looked forward to companionship, a few ales and the latest gossip.
# # #
Leslie Higginbottom walked down the main street in Skensfirth. It was dirt and called High Street even though it was no higher than the other dirt streets in the town. She had a short sword on her left hip and a baton on her right. The weapons were badges of office; she was the town's entire constabulary staff. She wore a blue denim shirt, tan wool breeches and a blue, hard-billed constabulary cap. The proudest day in her life was the one when she took over as constable in Skensfirth. That was a month ago, two weeks after the previous constable, her father, died suddenly. She had worked for the last three years in Ashton, the regional center, as assistant constable and had been promoted to replace her father.
She stared to the south with a worried look on her face. The Yukland border was only ten miles away and she feared that someday she would be called on to protect the town from yuk marauders. To prepare for that event, she planned to recruit some help. Her original idea to use the Skensfirth militia hadn't worked out. The militia was next to useless; a bunch of out-of-shape, old fogies who spent their drill-time drinking ale and swapping lies. She needed a few good fighters to stand in a battle line with her.
The town's business district ran the length of High Street and contained shops, a church, the town hall and a combination boarding house-tavern. At the north end of High Street, she walked around the market square where the farmers from the surrounding area came to sell their fresh produce. She smiled and joked with the folks in the square.
An hour later, she saw MacDrakin ride into town and decided to talk with him. Since he wasn't in town very often, they had exchanged only a few words since she had taken over the constabulary. This could be a opportunity to change that. Getting him to help defend the town would be an excellent way to start on her plan. What with the gleaming battle ax strapped to his back, he'd scare away yuks without doing anything other than waving it over his head. MacDrakin was handsome in a rugged, dwarfish way. His three-foot tall frame carried a great deal of muscle and his dark brown eyes, hair and beard curls exuded a certain sexiness. Sitting astride his pony, he radiated confidence unlike the other dwarfs in town. He owned land with gem mines, was rich and descended from a legendary hero. Everything considered, MacDrakin was the most impressive dwarf in the region. He was also unmarried, like herself.
MacDrakin pulled up his pony and greeted her with a smile and a nod. "Constable. How are you?"
"I'm fine." She returned the smile and patted the pony on the neck. "It's nice to see you in town again. How are things on the mountain?"
"Lonely."
Higginbottom's attention perked up at the word, 'lonely,' and her heart skipped a beat. "Listen. I've been meaning to ask you something. You know yuks have raided Skensfirth in the past. I'm sure they'll do it again someday. Can I count on you to help defend the town if that happens?"
MacDrakin pulled a face and didn't answer for a few seconds while he pondered the question. Finally, he asked, "You want me to join the militia?"
"No." Higginbottom shook her head. "The militia is an old-boys club and pretty useless. Will you stand with me to defend the town? I want to recruit a few other doughty warriors in addition to yourself just in case of a raid."
"Are the yuks getting feisty?" MacDrakin scratched his chin, puzzled by the request. "Is that why you're asking?"
"No. I haven't heard of any yuks crossing the border and everyone tells me not to worry. But I don't want to wait until Skensfirth is in trouble before I do something. It's my job to protect the town and that's what I intend to do."
"I don't know about any yuk troubles," MacDrakin said. "They've minded their manners recently. If you go looking for trouble, you'll end up finding trouble."
"Hogswaddle!" Higginbottom frowned at MacDrakin and spun on her heel. "Thanks for your time," she called over her shoulder as she stomped off.
He wondered why the constable seemed so touchy. As for Higginbottom's request, he didn't fancy coming into town to attend drills and maneuvers. He shrugged and rode to the general store.
THE COUNTESS OF CHUTZPAH
(Originally published on my website, April 2009)
Carmella Maltafano ignored the knot in her stomach. Her high-heeled shoes made no noise on the deep carpet in a hallway lined with holographic images of ancient Greek and Roman statues that towered over her five-foot-three height. She carried a spring-loaded holster with a stiletto beneath the left sleeve of her orange blouse. The tunic-length garment also concealed the bulge of the brass knuckles she carried in a pocket of her tan slacks.
She paused when she reached the door to the office of Sergei "Red-Nose" Kosloff, her father's best friend. She took three deep breaths and forced her mind to think positive; she and Sergei Red-Nose would reach an amicable agreement. Her business, and possibly her life, depended upon it.
Carmella pasted a smile on her face and tapped the door frame three times. Sergei, seventy years old and gaunt, looked up from the Financial Times and frowned.
A false smile replaced Sergei's frown. "Come in, my dear." He waved a hand towards a chair. "And how are you holding up since the dreadful loss of Rocky III?” The window behind Sergei's desk showed New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty.
"I've just about recovered from my father's death, thank you."
"I'm surprised you aren't wearing black to show respect for the deceased."
"Really, Sergei. No one wears a black dress these days unless they're going to a cocktail party."
“Traditions never go out of style. All of us Executives agree on that point."
His cold voice sent a chill through her body. Since when did Sergei and his peers believe in traditions?
Sergei had three colleagues; Wang No-Nose, a Chinese-American, Leroy Bent-Nose, an Afro-American and José La-Nosé, a Hispanic-American. The four, a culturally correct amalgam of New York City demographics, were lifelong criminals who had bullied and murdered their way to the top. The Executives, as they were known, controlled all aspects of crime in the five boroughs of New York City.
"Speaking of traditions, mainstream crime is a man's job. It is not fitting for any woman, let alone a middle-aged one, to inherit a turf. You must resign."
Carmella heard a roaring noise in her ears, a sign that her blood pressure had shot out of sight. How dare they demand that she ruin her son's future by resigning. And that middle-aged bit? "I'm only thirty-seven!"
"This is for your own good. Women have soft spots in their hearts. That can you get killed in this business."
"That is so much crap and you know it, Sergei." She inhaled deeply. "This isn't the twentieth century any more. It's 2052, and you can't make generalizations like that because we all know they're completely false."
Sergei stared down his red, bulbous nose at her.
Carmella stared back.
Sergei broke first. He jerked his eyes away and ruffled the salmon-colored newspaper. "This has nothing to do with discrimination. It's about protecting you from the vicious world of crime. We Executives will not allow you to control a turf. So resign!"
Carmella felt her face flush. It was happening again! Just like West Point!
Sergei's complexion now matched the color of his nose. She had to defuse his anger. Choking down bile, she gave him an ingratiating smile. "Let's not fight, Sergei. I've known you all my life. I'm sure we can work out an arrangement."
"The only arrangement I'm interested in is your resignation." He crossed his arms on his scrawny chest.
She hesitated, then snarled, "I can't and won't do that." Her anger surged. How dare this old man steal her inheritance. Before he died, her father, Rocky III, installed her as the new boss of the turf that controlled crime on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
"Listen to me." Sergei leaned forward and thumped a knuckle on his desk. "We will not allow you to destroy our traditions."
Tradition again. What are these people up to?
He shook his head. "My grandfather told me about the nobility before the Russian Revolution. They believed they could do anything thing they wanted, just like you. And you will come to the same fate as those noble idiots. You will regret this stubbornness."
She pondered the stupidity of these men. Organized crime couldn't get hung up on tradition. It had to be flexible to survive. "Sergei, my great-grandfather, Rocky the First, smuggled booze in from Canada during Prohibition. Once Prohibition ended, Rocky II ran floating crap games and the numbers until the government realized how much money there was in gambling. The state lotteries and legal casinos ended his business. My daddy sold hard drugs for many years and that's a dead business now."
"In all those instances, the turf leaders were men, not women." Sergei shook his head. "Resign! It's for your own protection."
Carmella realized that it was hopeless to argue with Sergei. She stood up and walked to the door where she paused and looked back. "The only protection I need is from you old bigots." Her voice dripped with venom. "Your traditions are nothing more than an excuse to defend the status quo and to flaunt your power."
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