A Trilogy Of Space Opera Flash Fiction With Bad Puns
Three flash fictions featuring Tommy "Ray" Gunn my space-opera pulp-adventure protagonist, and also featuring bad jokes. Bargaining Tools has previously appeared here; the others are new this month. You can read the words or click on the pictures.
****
Bargaining Tools
“Phased Integral Gun,” said the crow-man. “P. I. G.” He pronounced each letter individually, as though they had physical weight.
If so they were the only things. In the microgravity spoke of the wheel-station Tommy Gunn felt comfortable. The last time he had been re-bodied there had been a fluid systems improvement and the anti-nausea adjustments seemed to have taken.
So he was able to enjoy the slow circular movement of the pods and craft outside the window, and float at his ease near the side of the grey painted chamber off the side of the counter-rotating docking apparatus.
“I’d like to see more,” he said, looking at the undistinguished crates that were stuck to the wall, only the black machine readable labels differentiating them from any other cargo.
The crow-man nodded his head, feathers shaking from the crown. “These are the babies you need if you face mathematical entities. They are immune to all physical attacks – they barely interface with the sidereal universe.”
“Algorithmic Paradox Functions...” began Gunn, but he was cut off.
“Al-Par-Fu is all very well. But you need to keep your mental equations in shape. Who has time for all that practice? No, you need weaponised Phased Integrals.”
“Can I look inside the box?” asked Gunn.
“What? No. Hey where are you going? Look, this is a really good deal, you don’t want to be defenceless when some sentient theorem disproves your sufficient necessity...”
“Look friend, I’m not a novice. This is not my first trip out from the solar system. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes.” Gunn stopped at the hatch. “It’s like my Mum always told me. Never buy a P.I.G. in a spoke.”
****
A Free Gift
“Ayup Master Gunn, seems like you’ve got a good lot of literature there. More than any man might have time or need to read in a single winter.” Gabriel Hobb smirked at him and took a sip from the apple wine he’d been offered
Lieutenant Commander Tommy “Ray” Gunn, Deep Patrol, leaned back against the hull of the barge. He would have preferred to scan the books and codices, perhaps by sending in a fly drone at night to the printing shop. But there was a strategy in place for this planet. Non-interference was all very well but they were in the vicinity of a machine culture about to go faster-than-light. Buying the books stimulated the knowledge economy and the Patrol goods offered in return stimulated the society, making them better able to cope with change. That was the theory anyway.
And the cultural assessment team loved primary documentation. “My employer hopes to open a school for gentlemen,” he drawled. “P’rhaps no one man could read this bale o’paper, but a score o’em for months at a time might.”
“Happen they will,” said Hobb. “Okay lads, bring ‘em up.”
Gunn watched as the longshoremen brought the crates and boxes up, every one of them a slightly different size.
Hobb thought he had concerns. “Wrapped in cheesecloth, packed with straw and each crate lined with oilcloth. Keep the damp out and the books undamaged. Ah, here we go.”
Gunn frowned as a lad led up a long-legged beast. “Is that... a horse?”
“Funny looking thing ain’t it? The papermaker used it to turn the grist mill but what with the new gearing they’re fully water powered now. So rather than send ‘im to the knackers’ yard, thought we’d add ‘im to the team to pull the barge down to Pothaven.”
It was like no horse Gunn had ever seen and he’d seen variants on nearly a hundred planets. As it approached he looked at the heavy jaw, then stepped forward as it opened its mouth, tearing the bridle apart.
He sidestepped and then turned the move into a headlong dive as the bell-shaped muzzle of a disruptor emerged. He felt the white noise that shredded nerves clip his leg as he fumbled for his gun.
No Plasma Pistol, he is undercover. A double-barrelled flintlock pistol. But the finest one that this planet has ever seen.
BLAM. His hand has gone through the complex motions required to cock and fire it while he is still in the air. The left eye of the horse vanishes in a blur of metal shavings.
BLAM. The second shot smashes the disruptor before it turns on him. Then he’s rolling across the ground.
Hobb is standing over him, knife in hand. Gunn gathers himself, waiting for the inevitable stab, slips aside and slams the heavy pistol into the man’s knee. Gunn is on his feet before the other falls.
It seems that the machine culture is somewhat beyond the verge of spaceflight.
“How...” gasps Hobb between ragged breaths.
“If I’ve learned anything, it’s that people pleased to see you always have an ulterior motive, and that offers of help come with strings.” Gunn stepped back from the man, looked at the twitching hulk of the robot assassin. “I will always look the grist horse in the mouth.”
****
Aerial Park
“Chimeras,” said Ella Wright, recording auxiliary, Deep Patrol (provisional). “An entire menagerie of them.” They passed a winged horse which was glaring suspiciously at a pseudo-bat/lizard hybrid. In turn that creature was staring out the open window at the storm raging outside.
Thomas Gunn, her boss, shook his head. “I have been to many weird planets and this one...” The group they were passing turned to stare. “...is an excellent and highly interesting place.”
They turned their wide-eyed faces away, some of them hefting the grey hooded tunics back into place over their broad shoulders. The Beast Park was open for a great fair, as breeders and buyers travelled for thousands of kilometres to trade their animals.
Yet kilometres was not the way they measured distance here on Rocola II. Whatever had been here before the Wavefront, after that inexplicable event had passed the atmosphere had divided into two. Below was a thick, roiling, almost-liquid zone of poisonous gases. Above, pierced by great rock mesas and plateaus, was air as breathable and clear as aboard that coming from a well-maintained lifesystem.
A lifesystem that regularly created enormous thunderstorms; there was a crack and a flash and the creatures all began hooting and calling.
The scattered Rocolans learned to tame the winged beasts and cross the great gulfs between their high settlements. Though perhaps tame was an overstatement...
“Watch out!” So deep in discussion were they that the group had not noticed a creature get loose. A great feline paw tore open the fence; the raptor beak swept a man aside. The griffon screamed in frustration as its bound wings refused to unfurl.
Gunn bounced forward, hands reaching for the harness. “Not the reins!” called Ella, but it was too late. The griffon reared up and he found himself dangling as the paws reached for him.
Ella had a stick in hand and she rapped it on the knuckles. “Down, bad,” she called. The griffon sank down.
“How,” gasped Gunn.
“When stopping a rampaging griffon this is the rule,” said Ella in a singsong voice. “It’s never reins, butt its paws.”
****
More and longer adventures of Tommy Gunn, with a much lower proportion of terrible jokes can be found in my collection Oracular Operations which you can find in a variety of ebook formats on Smashwords.
****
“Phased Integral Gun,” said the crow-man. “P. I. G.” He pronounced each letter individually, as though they had physical weight.
If so they were the only things. In the microgravity spoke of the wheel-station Tommy Gunn felt comfortable. The last time he had been re-bodied there had been a fluid systems improvement and the anti-nausea adjustments seemed to have taken.
So he was able to enjoy the slow circular movement of the pods and craft outside the window, and float at his ease near the side of the grey painted chamber off the side of the counter-rotating docking apparatus.
“I’d like to see more,” he said, looking at the undistinguished crates that were stuck to the wall, only the black machine readable labels differentiating them from any other cargo.
The crow-man nodded his head, feathers shaking from the crown. “These are the babies you need if you face mathematical entities. They are immune to all physical attacks – they barely interface with the sidereal universe.”
“Algorithmic Paradox Functions...” began Gunn, but he was cut off.
“Al-Par-Fu is all very well. But you need to keep your mental equations in shape. Who has time for all that practice? No, you need weaponised Phased Integrals.”
“Can I look inside the box?” asked Gunn.
“What? No. Hey where are you going? Look, this is a really good deal, you don’t want to be defenceless when some sentient theorem disproves your sufficient necessity...”
“Look friend, I’m not a novice. This is not my first trip out from the solar system. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes.” Gunn stopped at the hatch. “It’s like my Mum always told me. Never buy a P.I.G. in a spoke.”
****
“Ayup Master Gunn, seems like you’ve got a good lot of literature there. More than any man might have time or need to read in a single winter.” Gabriel Hobb smirked at him and took a sip from the apple wine he’d been offered
Lieutenant Commander Tommy “Ray” Gunn, Deep Patrol, leaned back against the hull of the barge. He would have preferred to scan the books and codices, perhaps by sending in a fly drone at night to the printing shop. But there was a strategy in place for this planet. Non-interference was all very well but they were in the vicinity of a machine culture about to go faster-than-light. Buying the books stimulated the knowledge economy and the Patrol goods offered in return stimulated the society, making them better able to cope with change. That was the theory anyway.
And the cultural assessment team loved primary documentation. “My employer hopes to open a school for gentlemen,” he drawled. “P’rhaps no one man could read this bale o’paper, but a score o’em for months at a time might.”
“Happen they will,” said Hobb. “Okay lads, bring ‘em up.”
Gunn watched as the longshoremen brought the crates and boxes up, every one of them a slightly different size.
Hobb thought he had concerns. “Wrapped in cheesecloth, packed with straw and each crate lined with oilcloth. Keep the damp out and the books undamaged. Ah, here we go.”
Gunn frowned as a lad led up a long-legged beast. “Is that... a horse?”
“Funny looking thing ain’t it? The papermaker used it to turn the grist mill but what with the new gearing they’re fully water powered now. So rather than send ‘im to the knackers’ yard, thought we’d add ‘im to the team to pull the barge down to Pothaven.”
It was like no horse Gunn had ever seen and he’d seen variants on nearly a hundred planets. As it approached he looked at the heavy jaw, then stepped forward as it opened its mouth, tearing the bridle apart.
He sidestepped and then turned the move into a headlong dive as the bell-shaped muzzle of a disruptor emerged. He felt the white noise that shredded nerves clip his leg as he fumbled for his gun.
No Plasma Pistol, he is undercover. A double-barrelled flintlock pistol. But the finest one that this planet has ever seen.
BLAM. His hand has gone through the complex motions required to cock and fire it while he is still in the air. The left eye of the horse vanishes in a blur of metal shavings.
BLAM. The second shot smashes the disruptor before it turns on him. Then he’s rolling across the ground.
Hobb is standing over him, knife in hand. Gunn gathers himself, waiting for the inevitable stab, slips aside and slams the heavy pistol into the man’s knee. Gunn is on his feet before the other falls.
It seems that the machine culture is somewhat beyond the verge of spaceflight.
“How...” gasps Hobb between ragged breaths.
“If I’ve learned anything, it’s that people pleased to see you always have an ulterior motive, and that offers of help come with strings.” Gunn stepped back from the man, looked at the twitching hulk of the robot assassin. “I will always look the grist horse in the mouth.”
****
“Chimeras,” said Ella Wright, recording auxiliary, Deep Patrol (provisional). “An entire menagerie of them.” They passed a winged horse which was glaring suspiciously at a pseudo-bat/lizard hybrid. In turn that creature was staring out the open window at the storm raging outside.
Thomas Gunn, her boss, shook his head. “I have been to many weird planets and this one...” The group they were passing turned to stare. “...is an excellent and highly interesting place.”
They turned their wide-eyed faces away, some of them hefting the grey hooded tunics back into place over their broad shoulders. The Beast Park was open for a great fair, as breeders and buyers travelled for thousands of kilometres to trade their animals.
Yet kilometres was not the way they measured distance here on Rocola II. Whatever had been here before the Wavefront, after that inexplicable event had passed the atmosphere had divided into two. Below was a thick, roiling, almost-liquid zone of poisonous gases. Above, pierced by great rock mesas and plateaus, was air as breathable and clear as aboard that coming from a well-maintained lifesystem.
A lifesystem that regularly created enormous thunderstorms; there was a crack and a flash and the creatures all began hooting and calling.
The scattered Rocolans learned to tame the winged beasts and cross the great gulfs between their high settlements. Though perhaps tame was an overstatement...
“Watch out!” So deep in discussion were they that the group had not noticed a creature get loose. A great feline paw tore open the fence; the raptor beak swept a man aside. The griffon screamed in frustration as its bound wings refused to unfurl.
Gunn bounced forward, hands reaching for the harness. “Not the reins!” called Ella, but it was too late. The griffon reared up and he found himself dangling as the paws reached for him.
Ella had a stick in hand and she rapped it on the knuckles. “Down, bad,” she called. The griffon sank down.
“How,” gasped Gunn.
“When stopping a rampaging griffon this is the rule,” said Ella in a singsong voice. “It’s never reins, butt its paws.”
****
More and longer adventures of Tommy Gunn, with a much lower proportion of terrible jokes can be found in my collection Oracular Operations which you can find in a variety of ebook formats on Smashwords.
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