Showdown at Jupiter's Edge: A Maxo Magnaveer Adventure, Page 2

  Once the flare drones reached the scene, they sent back sensory images. Both Maxo and Alice saw it plain as day.

  “This is CLF patrol one-eleven-Adam,” Maxo said into his headset microphone, “are you in distress?” He waited for a response from the enormous F-9350 full-sized transport.

  “C’mon, Maxo, they’re a junker and you’ve just blown their cover,” Alice whispered, then raised her voice, saying, “unless they’re just a person making up for a small penis, who else would be flying one of those hulks?”

  “You’re right.” Maxo smirked and said, “CLF patrol to the captain of the F-9350, you are trespassing and suspected of theft of private property. Stand by for Flight Systems and Life Support override. We’ll be taking remote command of your ship per standing CLF operational orders.”

  “Engaging F.S.-L.S. override.” Alice patted the beater’s dashboard. “Good girl. We’ve got it, Maxo. Suspect ship is under our control.”

  “Roger that.”

  Maxo and Alice gazed toward the F-9350. Like most transports, its rectangular carriage bay extended toward the stern and had a square command superstructure rising from the hull near the bow. But the F-9350s were the triple-XLs of their class. They stretched one-hundred-ninety meters from front to back and had both upper and lower rotating carriage bays that were forty-five meters wide.

  “I’m detecting one human life sign,” Alice said, leaning her face toward the beater’s scanner screens, “and a crew of seven Digi-persons. The ship’s weapons are cold.”

  “We must have really caught them unawares,” Maxo said.

  “Slick! I bet this thing hauls ass. You see its big, red racing stripe? Looks sweet on that glossy hull.”

  “Swing around and dock us in their upper carriage bay. I’ll let headquarters know we are boarding…” Maxo removed his sunglasses and double checked the scanner screens. “Of course,” he sighed, “we are boarding Candy Lady.”

  Chapter 2

  Greedy Bastard

  Colonel Zaza D’Rump, aboard his flagship La Corona, enjoyed a few minutes reclining in a transparent tanning tube that extended from the ship’s gold-plated hull like a pop-up turkey thermometer. Behind him, the wide, blocky stern of La Corona narrowed at his location. Forward, the ship consisted of an armored hull, three hundred meters long and thirty meters wide at the base, tapering to a point thirty meters above. The bow, which housed the bridge, was wide and blocky too, but only one-third the size of the stern. The ship bristled with missile bays, blaster cannons, and gamma beam emitters. Its military prowess was matched, according to those who had been aboard, by its luxurious amenities, which included a wall-to-wall, tropical-themed resort with a six-million-gallon swimming pool on the stern’s upper decks.

  As he basked in the radioactive waves emitted by nearby Jupiter, freshening his carroty complexion in preparation for his next hijacking, he listened to a Porto Blago News stream originating from a bulbous asteroid which also happened to be home to D’Rump’s personal, fortified enclave.

  “And you know the Grand Canadians will politely defer to the other members of their alliance,” the P.B.N. commentator asserted, his voice dipping, “and leave the colonists hanging out to dry.”

  “It’s as if they want to hand it all over to Solis et Novem,” said the angry P.B.N. anchor. “Where is the justice in that?” she stammered.

  “Of course, there’s none,” the commentator added. “That’s why we really need someone to shake things up. To show them who they have forgotten, the hard-working and pioneering patriots of the Martian colony.”

  “And by that savior you mean—”

  In unison, the commentator, the anchor, and D’Rump said, “The Colonel!”

  Just then, the rubber sphincter at the bottom of the tanning tube began to oscillate as an exit valve opened. The exhaust pressure squeezed the pear-shaped D’Rump down the tube, below which he dropped into a water-filled basin, making a big splash before climbing out and wiping off. Naked, he doddered from the tannery into his adjacent quarters, strapped on his girdle, and activated the gown’s vacuum pump. Within minutes, D’Rump’s body shape transformed from that of a listless pear into more of a soup can dented at the middle. During this, D’Rump’s styling drone hummed about his head, combing wispy yellow swatches of hair into wavy folds.

  As D’Rump slipped into a backwards pair of black pantaloons, his styling drone retrieved a red, zip-up tunic accessorized with gold epaulets and a gold, thigh-length cravat which D’Rump tucked inside the tunic, the end fluttering in front of his crotch like a flimsy codpiece. He finished dressing by stepping his size-9 feet into size-12 boots with lifts, and putting on a pair of black gloves, each equipped with 2-inch prosthetic finger extensions. D’Rump then opened his mouth into which his styling drone inserted a pair of dentures. He pursed his lips and sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth. This viperfish could hiss.

  “Ah, never better,” D’Rump mumbled, then summoned four bodyguards, who escorted him to the bridge of La Corona. As they walked along the triangular corridor of the ship’s main deck, D’Rump fumbled with his compu-pad, dictating belligerent proclamations, and sharing testimonials with fans who supported his anti-elitist brand of commerce, also known as piracy.

  “I have the best solution to the Martian problem,” D’Rump said into the compu-pad, “and it is pure genius. Let me tell you now, that means it won’t include Solis et Novem because they aren’t known for being great in the brains department like me.” He laughed when he transmitted the message.

  Upon entering the bridge, Major Millow Schilling greeted D’Rump. Schilling, who became the Colonel’s new advisor after the previous one imploded during an enema, was a scrawny man with white hair. He wore a black jumpsuit with red piping and a white armband with D’Rump’s black corporate logo emblazoned upon it. The logo featured a pair of crossed rocket outlines, each with a large capital “D” serving as the warhead.

  Schilling licked his lips. They glistened, and his hazel eyes sparkled as they gazed upon D’Rump. “Good morning, dear. I mean, Dear Leader,” Schilling sputtered. “I am ready for you, I mean, your orders, whenever you want to give them,” he sighed, “to me.”

  “Thanks, Millie,” D’Rump replied. “Are we ready to finally put Mars first?”

  Schilling stroked the laser pistol holstered on his belt. “Indeed. Liberating the shipping lanes from Solis et Novem’s tyrannical control and crushing tariffs will bestow the colonists with life-giving freedom. Colonel D’Rump, you are a savior.”

  “Hey, that’s good stuff. Can you write that down for me?” D’Rump asked.

  “Of course, sir. I’m so honored to—”

  “But what I meant was, are we ready to seize the food barge and make our demands?”

  “Oh yes, yes we are.” Schilling took a breath and walked D’Rump to a glowing table in the center of the bridge that displayed a digital map of CLF Patrol Zones Betty, Charlie, and David. These covered Earth and the Moon, Mars and the Asteroid Belt, and Jupiter and its nearby asteroids, respectively. “The barge has left Earth’s orbit and is chugging its way to Mars. Three of your Comet interceptors are already on their way to, shall we say, detain the barge, which is bringing a year’s supply of synthetic foods to the Martian colonists.”

  Both D’Rump and Schilling paused and looked around the bridge. On one side, the bodyguards had receded into the shadows and strapped themselves into flight seats behind a long console that housed automated navigation computers. On the other side, two human technicians and one Digi-person monitored weapons control, life support, and engines.

  “You there,” D’Rump said, “you there at engine control.”

  “Maltos, sir,” Schilling whispered, “Lieutenant Maltos.”

  “Any reason we can’t hyper-weave today, Lieutenant Maltos?”

  Maltos, a blond, white woman with large breasts and glossy, plump lips stood and removed her white nylon ballcap with the black D’Rump logo and said, “No, sir. T
he Trans-Holo engines are charged up and raring to go. We can activate them at any time.”

  “Well, all I can say,” D’Rump bellowed, “stand down but stand by Lieutenant Maltos.”

  While Maltos sat down and put her cap on, Schilling looked at her and back to D’Rump. “Sir,” he said, “are we going somewhere?”

  The viperfish inhaled again through his teeth and slinked toward the bridge’s main window. “Yes, Millie, we are. We’re gonna go up and meet with those interceptors. Together we’ll go along there together and maybe, just maybe, when we go up there, where the interceptors are, we’ll join them. But we’ll do more than join them. We’ll lead them. I’ll lead them, because that is what I do. And I do it so well. People tell me, ‘You lead so well.’ And I can’t disagree. I have to agree because they’re the ones saying this, and these are some great people. Big brains. Big people…”

  Schilling followed D’Rump, and stood next to him, gazing out the window.

  “…But only I can do this. Only I can save the colony. Only I can make Mars great again.” D’Rump smiled and squinted his eyes. “Millie, we will liberate the barge ourselves and bring it to Porto Blago.”

  “But sir, what of the CLF patrols? Their Caprices are, well, fast and hard hitting. Our Comets are faster, but much smaller and La Corona is more suitable for dreadnought engagements.”

  “Not to worry, we’ll be in and out before the CLF even knows what happened.” D’Rump leaned in to whisper in Schilling’s ear. “I have a secret weapon. Some help from within the CLF.”

  Schilling closed his eyes and inhaled D’Rump’s warm, whispering breath, raising goose bumps on his neck and arms. “I’ll lay in your bed, I mean, a course to the barge. I’ll lay in that course to the barge right away.”

  “Good, and we’ll teach Solis et Novem and the CLF a lesson they won’t soon forget.”

  ***

  The tug’s flight crew assigned the callsign, Gravy Boat, to their food barge mission. Since several routine crop harvests on Mars had failed, this shipment was vital to the survival of the colonists. Some agitators blamed colonial officials and new immigrants for the unexplained crop failures, while others alleged corruption was responsible for Solis et Novem’s slow and expensive relief mission.

  With little pressure, the system was at a tipping point, but few opened their eyes to that prospect, and fewer spoke of it. Most denied its plausibility, and others spoke of its demolition, disguising their salacious greed as benevolent salvation.

  Halfway between Earth and Mars, Gravy Boat approached an inspection beacon. Expecting to see a few CLF beaters and at least one customs ferry, the tug’s pilot asked her Digi-person navigator, a unit named Ari, to confirm their location.

  “We are right where we are supposed to be, Skipper,” Ari said, slipping off a pair of simulated virtual reality goggles. “But no CLF appear to be posted here.”

  “Just curious, and no offense,” Skipper said, “if all your billions of inputs are digital, why do you wear those simulated goggles?”

  “For the same reason I appear to be wearing this green flight suit, which is just like yours,” Ari responded. “To fit in.”

  “Ah, I see. Thanks for that. I haven’t worked with many…”

  “Digis. I am Digi. I call myself that. Digi-person sounds so insensitive, and I understand your uncertainty. Not long ago, the idea of a sentient hologram was the stuff of science fiction, but so was the idea of existing within a holographic universe, but here we are.”

  “Yup, here we are,” Skipper said and then activated her communicator. “Gravy Boat to Patrol Zone Charlie CLF, we have arrived at the inspection beacon. Awaiting clearance to proceed to Mars. Please advise.”

  Ari watched Skipper fold her arms and take a deep breath, steps he repeated as a means to better emulate his human counterpart. The tug’s interior shuddered as its station-keeping thrusters synchronized the five-hundred-meter long, one-million-ton barge to the beacon’s location.

  “Well,” Skipper said, “at least we’re doing our job today. Not sure about the CLF.” She repeated her earlier transmission and again waited for the response. “I wonder if the inspection beacon’s relay is working?”

  Ari glanced at his control panel. “Everything shows green, and it appears to be receiving and sending our telemetry.”

  “Gravy Boat, this is CLF patrol one-fiver-Charlie.”

  “Go ahead, CLF,” Skipper said.

  “Right, so sorry for the delay. This is Captain Shineer Havlock, and I want to personally apologize for any inconvenience. In an abundance of caution, we had to evacuate the inspectors due to reports of piracy in the area.”

  Skipper pointed to the digital map on Ari’s console, so he began to review the display, looking for any hint of danger.

  “But all’s clear,” Havlock continued. “My squad of Caprices scoured the area and will regroup soon. We’ll join you for the rest of your trip to Mars. The customs officers should be nearing the beacon so please stand by.”

  Ari nodded and said, “Yes, we see them now on our screen. Looks like two beaters and the customs ferry.”

  “Brilliant, then you’re in good hands. Cheers,” Havlock said. “CLF patrol one-fiver-Charlie, out.”

  While looking again at his screen, Ari furrowed his brow. “That’s one fast ferry.”

  Skipper looked over at the display, then out the tug’s window. Near the beacon’s location, about six-thousand meters ahead of them, she saw a series of white flashes, followed by a sparkling blue explosion.

  Ari’s display went dark, and his communication panel lit up red. “Skipper, we’ve just lost our connection. It’s like the beacon died.”

  “Drop a Mayday pod, Ari.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Without a link to the beacon, the tug shuddered as its thrusters attempted to find the correct station-keeping position. Skipper shut them down but not before the automated emergency controls undocked the tug and ejected it away from the barge. Then, a plasma cannon blast to the tug’s hull sent the craft spiraling. Inside, the cockpit became engulfed in sparks and smoke.

  “Skipper, I can’t get the Mayday pod to launch,” Ari yelled.

  “We’re hit,” she said, struggling to affix her helmet. “But by what?”

  With goggles on, Ari paused, then said, “Comet interceptors! We’ve been ambushed by pirates.”

  “That can’t be, the CLF said they cleared them out of here.”

  Through the window, they saw the three delta-shaped attackers swoop past just as a heavy cruiser came out of hyper-weave above the barge.

  “Well, fuck me,” Skipper said. “Ari, do we have any thruster power?”

  “Stand by.” Trying to process visual and other data, Ari cocked his head a few times, then removed his goggles. “No, none at all, but we are getting a ship-to-ship radio call from the cruiser.”

  “Patch it in. Maybe they will bring us aboard.”

  “The line is open.”

  Ari and Skipper waited for the cruiser to start its transmission. It began with a flourish of harps and trumpets, then a booming voice said, “Today, you have the honor and privilege to speak with none other than Colonel Zaza D’Rump. Please, warmly welcome the Colonel with rousing applause and roaring ovations.” The harps and trumpets flourished again and transitioned to the sound of an audience clapping and cheering.

  “Hello, tug people. I am the Colonel, and this is my flagship, La Corona. Impressive, isn’t she?”

  Ari looked at Skipper. Judging from her blank stare, Ari assumed she had nothing to say.

  “You’re speechless, I can tell,” D’Rump continued. “Well, I’ll go ahead and do all the talking. I have all the good words so let me do all of the talking…”

  Skipper typed and sent a message to Ari’s compu-pad. Alert to all incoming data, he read it right away. “In a solar system as big as ours, we had to run into this asshole.”

  “…It’s time for more than just words,” D’Rump sa
id, “and people tell me, good people, I mean really great people tell me I need to get involved, that only I can fix this mess…”

  Ari typed a response to Skipper. “Then you aren’t one of his ‘fans’?”

  Skipper smiled and typed, “He’s duped them. He only cares about one thing, himself. His greed never ends, and he will lie about everything to everyone just to get what he wants.”

  “…This monopoly, this Solis et Novem monopoly, leaves too many people out in the cold. Do you know how much they are charging the Martian colony for this relief mission? A lot and that’s because they value money more than the colonists…”

  “What do you think he has to gain by hijacking this food? Won’t the Martians simply blame him for making things worse?” Ari wrote.

  Nodding, Skipper replied, “Many will, but his fans will hail him as a savior even though they’ll end up paying double for the food.”

  Ari noticed Skipper was shivering. As power levels dropped, the tug’s onboard heaters began to shut down. The coldness of deep space seeped into the cockpit. “What a bastard,” Ari typed.

  “…Shortly, I will announce my plans to begin breaking up this monopoly by taking control of the solar system’s shipping lanes. In exchange, I will free the Martian colonists from their enslavement by delivering this precious cargo of food. Naturally, I don’t want anything getting in my way. I’m sure you understand.”

  While the music flourished once again, Skipper turned to Ari and said, “I’m sorry to have gotten you into this situation.” White flashes erupted nearby, breaching the tug’s hull. Skipper’s goodbye quickened. “I hope there are people who will rise up and resist this madness, who will stand up for what’s right.”

  As power drained and Ari’s interface faded, he watched the vacuum of space sweep Skipper out into darkness. He typed one last message and sent it to her just as his systems shut down.

  “I am Digi, created by humans, so I know goodness is never far away.”

  ***

  A CLF Caprice was shaped very much like a grasshopper, wings retracted and minus legs and antennae. This was not a coincidence. Its designer, prior to her mid-life break, was an entomologist, and she envisioned swarms of planet-hopping Caprices to be the guardians of law and order in the solar system. CLF paint schemes dictated that the two-hundred-meter-long ships were painted white with black undersides, and naming protocols gave Caprices monikers such as Defender and Striker. To command a Caprice was a privilege. To captain a squad of them was prestigious and impressive, and it came with a special sash.