Of Satellites and Flintlocks (Full Version)

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Goldstein -> Of Satellites and Flintlocks (1/23/2012 17:41:15)

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June 13th

What a sunny and happy that day was. The birds were singing, the cicadas hummed, like nature’s alarm clock. The sky was a light blue, broken only by the long trails left by the countless ships buzzing above the Kennedy Space Center. A light breeze buffeted the grass and created tiny little waves. How exciting, so full of promise!

I wasn't paying much attention to the squat, yet-impressive Center. My briefcase was sitting on my lap and acting as an emergency surface so that I could finish my latest report. It wasn't exactly essential, it was a report on the latest training practices being operated in the Bohr Quadrant, but my superiors would have my head if I turned it in late. "Late," of course, being after the moment I stepped into my office.

"Okay, what was that officer's name...Dougal, Donald, Captain, Corporeal..." I felt like snapping my pencil in my frustration. I was better than that. But lately...

"Of course! Warrant Officer Smitters, how could I forget?" I hurriedly penciled in his name, along with some other information, then let out a contented sigh. I removed my cap and scratched my scalp, then quickly rearranged it into a tight bun when I saw the ground rapidly coming closer and closer.

I paid the cabbie, who accepted his $87 dollar fee without a word. I quickly checked to make sure my uniform was free of dust or lint, then confidently proceeded into the building.

In the middle of the Center sat a huge rocket, blocked of by thick plexi-glass. Scientists in mustard yellow suits with long tails that reminded me of a 19th century butler were talking and showcasing the rocket, which would launch later that day. Government agents and members of the press studied it with amazement.

I hadn't been invited to attend the countdown. I don't know why...

...

My office overlooked the entrance to the Center. Arches with quotes from astronauts carved into them stand over a jet black and unnaturally smooth road flanked by tiny models of famous shape ships and satellites that sit in serene pools of water that create waves to give the illusion the rockets are about to blast-off. That view, however, was blocked by the bulk of Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Gannie.


I never did like Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Gannie. He knew nothing of spatial warfare, having been trained in conventional terrain tactics. Still, the boys up in the White House saw it fit to appoint him to the Local Space division. They knew more than me, apparently. It helped, I suppose, that his distant uncle was the Exulted Premier.

“You’re fired,” he said.

“Excuse me, sir?” I said, thinking I misheard him. Or it was a prank. That would be just like him.

“Budget cuts. The KSC has too many tactical strategists, and you’re part of the group we don’t need anymore.” Not a single drop of sympathy. Smug snake, I thought, nothing like being totally incompetent to grant you job security. “You will vacate the area immediately?”

“Yes, sir,” I said through gritted teeth, my grip so tight on my briefcase I'm sure my knuckles were white.That cursed grin of his. He would take pleasure in someone losing their job. He brushed past me, off to presumably inform some other sod of some bad news.

I didn’t even have a box for all my possessions, and they wouldn't fit all into my briefcase, so I used my gray cap instead for what remained. As one last act of revenge, I stole everything, from the stapler to the big rubber band ball. As I took my college certificate off the wall the news finally hit me at full-force, and I had to choke back tears.

How undignified.

Anger and disappointment ballooned in my chest as I made the walk of shame out the Center. Disappointed because it was best job I ever had. Angry because I hadn’t seen this coming and I was letting it get me down. There was work elsewhere. I could get hired by some corporation, maybe BP, maybe Microsoft. No one paid me much mind. It seemed, while I wasn't paying attention, that layoffs had become the norm.

Which cab should I take? The one back to my apartment, so I could mope in peace? To the food district, to drown my sorrows in cheap coffee? Or to the business district to start finding a job immediately? The first two sounded so pathetic, even in my head, that I headed for the closest business cab when I heard-

“Hey, want a job?”

His words caught me off-guard. At first I didn't think he was addressing me, but then I recognized he was smiling at me. I glared at the speaker, a middle-aged man with a long, unruly beard. He stood, his arms crossed, against the side of a personal transport car that was conspicuously fancy, compared to the standard government models. He himself looked like he had been dragged there from a back-alley, out of place amongst the uniformed officials.

“How do you know I need a job?” I said roughly, and I tried to walk away, but he jumped in front of me.

“People with jobs don’t carry stuff like staplers around in their hats. Come on lass, do you want to join the unemployed mass? How much demand do you think there is for, uh,” he bent down and read my nametag, “tactical strategists named Grace O’Malley?”

I rolled my eyes and pushed past him. I had him marked from the very beginning. Any man that looked like he should have been receiving welfare checks shouldn’t be offering jobs. Not legal ones, at least.

“Come on kid,” the man said, jumping in front of me again. He threw his coat open, and for a second I thought he was one of those flashers, but instead of bare private parts, I saw gleaming watches, eyeglasses, necklaces, and oddly, handguns. He handed me a necklace, one with a huge ruby stone in the middle.

“Fancy that?”

I looked it over, and exchanged it for a gold-plated pistol. “This is just cool,” I said, letting the sunlight reflect off its surface.

The scoundrel grinned. “Then step into my car. There’s more of that.”

I scoffed and gave him the gun back. “I’m sure there is. Unfortunately, I’m NOT interested.”

“Then at least let me escort you to the nearest Employment Kiosk?” he said, slapping the door of the car behind him, which rose and shot off into the air, quickly out of sight.

There was no getting rid of him. Better to just let him come and show him how easy it would be for me to get a job. I never would have thought that’d be the last time I’d see the Center’s towering ships and trimmed green lawns.

Ever since the Conjoined Confederation of Countries was formed and the idea of colonizing the moon became a reality, the area around the Kennedy Space Center became prime real-estate. The government built housing for the scientists and security guards, but people need groceries, barbers, clothing, and other such things. The private sector provided that. Named “Narmstrong,” after that first, and greastest space explorer ever, it flourished, and soon became an icon of what modern-day countries could do when they let science and common sense lead the way. No crime, poverty. No churches, either, but if that’s a good or bad thing, I’ll let you decide.

Employment Kiosks were set up all over the city. I’m not sure why, no one lived in Narmstrong just to live there. But it was convenient.

The sterile neatness of the Center slowly gave way to the more casual and welcoming architecture of the city. Plastic was replaced by worn bricks and flower boxes. Main street was crowded with people, children with mothers, shoppers and sellers, love-struck couples. I felt alone. I quickly shook off the absurd feeling and approached an Employment Kiosk on the corner of a pharmacy. The man was still behind me, regrettably, so I typed in my job, then selected the city of Narmstrong, then stood to the side so he could clearly see the screen.

“Just watch, there’ll be plenty of-“

“No matches found,” he said, reading the screen.

“What? Well, uh, no matter, I can move. Let’s try all of Florida…”

“No results found. Perhaps the entire United States?”

I swallowed my pride and did as he said. After what seemed like forever, the results came back. Three jobs, located in Iowa.

“My goodness. Seven to seven hours? Only $100,000 a year salary? Not as cushy as your previous job. Not as cushy as what I’m offering.”

I cursed and slapped the machine.

“Feisty, I do like that in a woman, and-“

He shut up when I jabbed my finger in his face. “Why shouldn’t I do the same to you?”

Without breaking eye contact he pressed the golden pistol into my hands. “Just see the old girl, okay?”

What could it hurt? I told him to lead the way, which he did, with a bounce in his step.

The shipping bay always filled my heart with excitement. How could if not incite images of adventure and discovery? All of the ships, huge and small, lined up in rows, ready to blast off to
some new, exotic world. Waves, if they got big enough, would crash into the side and send droplets of seawater into the air. No one complained. It was considered good luck to be sprayed with sea foam at the start of a journey.

This shipping bay, however, located discreetly behind a packaging warehouse, seemed...off. People talked as they cleaned their ships or scrubbed the floor, loudly and boisterously. No security cameras, either.

Some of the dock workers, burned red, seemed to recognize my companion. “Hey, Commander, when you setting sail again? We gotta make a living, too, you know!” one of them called as his buddies snickered behind them.

“Oh, so you’re a Commander. Have a last name?” I asked as I admired the different kinds of ships.

“I do. Commander Francis Bills of the HMS Roanoke. And here she is,” he said as he spread out his arms, as if presenting a huge banquet.

It was a frigate, class-A, with six cannons capable of firing missiles with on-board computer guidance, along with engines that could reach .4 light-years. Fast, quick. A pirate’s ship.

“Fastest ship in all of space.” He sounded very proud

I rubbed my chin as I appraised the humble craft. “It’s not bad,” I finally concluded.

“Not bad?” a bald man with an eyepatch said as he clambered out of the ship. “Lass, this is one of the best pieces of hardware ever built. Show some respect.”

“Ah, Mr. Bridges, a pleasure to see you this fine day,” Commander Bills said, “please meet our new first mate. That is, if Mrs. O’Malley cares to join.”

Before I could object, Mr. Bridges did it for me. “Mr. Davies leaves, and you replace him already? There’s not a single ounce of respect in you.”

“I’m afraid I agree with the bald man,” I said. “I’m not a pirate.”

The word caused a visible shift in their attitudes. “How can you trust this woman?” Mr. Bridges demanded, his one eye alive with rage. “Throwing that word around as if it’s nothing. She could get us
killed!”

“She will do her job splendidly.”

“Do I get a say?”

Commander Bills pinched the space between his eyes and said, “Look, Grace, there aren’t any jobs for you. What else do you have? Our operations may or may not be legal. It hardly matters,
regardless.”

He had a point. But I wasn’t willing to leave the boundaries of the law so easily. I told him that.

“We…men of fortune don’t do contracts. Do one raid with us. We don't kill anyone, if that's what you're worried about, and we'll official record you as a prisoner press-ganged into service, so if we're caught, you're off scotch-clean. No risk, lot's to gain. Sounds pretty swill, aye?

Commander Bill’s face was one of pleading, Mr. Bridge’s, one of loathing. Did I really want to do this? What was the alternative? Some sub-standard job in…Iowa? Maybe a desk-job in a corporate
monstrosity? Or a job where my skills are valued? The only thing that had kept me tied to Narmstrong was my job at the Center. I thought of my little apartment in the military district, filled with worthless furniture and nothing of particular worth. I didn’t want to go back there.

“Fine. So long as I’m paid, I’ll do what you want.”

Mr. Bridges shook his head with disgust. “That’s why Davies left us. No loyalty in the crew. It’s gonna be the death of us all.”

“You do your job, and I’ll do mine,” Commander Bills said. “A celebration is in order. The men have full pockets and nothing to spend it on.”

“Not in this flowery town, anyway,” Mr. Bridges grumbled as he headed back into the Roanoke. “Shall I tell the captain to plan a course for the Tortuga Station?”

The mention of the station made Commander Bill’s eyes light up. “Aye, that sounds refreshing.”

The sound of the engine revving up mingled with the crash of a powerful wave. Seawater drizzled down, catching the light, sparkling.

“Welcome aboard, Miss O’Malley,” Commander Bills said, bowing and holding the door open for me.

What had I gotten myself into? With a gulp I entered the ship.

The inside was as clean as the outside, which surprised me. The floors were a slick black tile, the walls a smooth, white plastic. The hallways were spacious, enough for two men to walk abreast.

“You’ll be rooming in the First Mate’s office. Not as big as the captain’s or mine own, but it’s private,” Commander Bills said, pointing down a hallway to our right.

“Thank you,” I said awkwardly. Did I call him sir, maybe commander? A look of resentment flickered across his face, but perhaps that was just my imagination.

“Go ahead and get refreshed, then you’ll want to meet the captain.”

I nodded, and we parted.

The office was cozy. The walls did little to muffle the sound of the engine, but I’d get used to it. There was a small cot in one corner, a desk in the other. A small, circle window gave me a clear view of the ocean. I watched as the horizon went from horizontal, to diagonal, to vertical. We were ready to blast off. It’s amazing what artificial gravity can do. I had no shifts in perspective, and nothing was rolling around.

There was a small tug in my stomach as we slowly ascended. When I looked back up, a few minutes later, we were already high up in the clouds. Not even a hint of turbulence.

All of my possession fit into my desks’ top drawer. I checked the closet for any clothes, but it was barren. I supposed I’d be purchasing my own. I smiled rather immaturely at the idea of dressing up in a tricorn hat and corset and breeches. Maybe even a parrot.

Looking back, the fact I was smiling so soon after accepting an offer to board a pirate ship surprises me.

A couple of crewmates passed by my open door, sneaking a peek at the new addition, I suppose. They were snickering and speaking in whispers, and when I faced them, they hurriedly scampered out of view. A couple of cabin boys. Harmless.

The fellow that followed wasn’t. He was a huge, hunchbacked man with a mangled arm that he carried in a sling. Only for a second did he pause to analyze me. The conclusion he arrived at must have been unpleasant, because he furrowed his brow and snarled at me before passing on.

I’d be lying if I said the encounter didn’t frighten me a little. I steeled my nerves, then made my way to the helm of the ship, mindful to lock the door behind me.




Goldstein -> RE: Of Satellites and Flintlocks (1/31/2012 23:28:31)

The ship wasn’t excessively fancy or adorned, which surprised. I always figures pirates decked out their ships with all sorts of stuff they’ve picked up over the years. But everything was surprisingly orderly, dare I say, neat. The walkways were clear, the walls mostly unscuffed, the lights stable and unflickering. Following the signs bolted to the walls, I took a flight of stairs and proceeded down a corridor, which terminated with a single, unremarkable door.

“You can’t go in there, you know. That’s the helm.”

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. I checked over my shoulder, but the long hallway was void of human bodies.

“Who…said that?” I asked uncertainly.

“No respect, not even from the new recruits. I’m up here, my fluid friend.”

The sight nearly gave me a heart attack. A Gatling gun was hanging from the ceiling, and it had…an eye. Not a human eye, but a red light that formed a circle, in the middle of the barrels that, if I’m correct, shoot bullets out. It appeared to be studying me disdainfully, not a good look for a Gatling gun pointed at you.

“I, uh, what-“

“No need to stammer. Surprise is the natural response. I am Verner, and you are?”

A coherent response wasn’t possible at the time, so the gun just shook back and forth, and made a tut tut sound. It sounded somewhat like Stephen Hawking, if Hawking had a German accent and more emotion.

“Let me guess, you’re another street rat Bills took pity on. I’m supposed to not liquefy the new recruits, but I’ve got a bunch of bullets, and I feel like they’re just wasting away.”

The barrels started to spin, the eye happily humming along.

My voice finally found itself and I shouted, “I am the new first mate and I demand you stop spinning!”

The German Gatling gun stared at me, then started laughing, shaking up and down. “Good heavens, I was only joking!” he said between gasps for breath. “Do you have any idea how messy that would be? Captain De Gama is expecting you, First Mate O’Malley. Pleasure to meet you!”

Trying to retain as much dignity as I could, I opened the door and tried to keep my head up high and my legs steady. Verner chuckled, and I quickly slammed the door.

The helm was impressive. 180 degree windows that commanded an excellent view of space. People say it’s black, but I always saw it as a dark blue, with tiny golden specks. Below the windows was a semicircle of computers, all humming and beeping in unison. In the center was a podium, for video messages. Commander Bills was sitting on a chair off to the side, holding a cigar, while two figures stood above him, their backs to me. Bills took a drag on his cigar, saw me, and beamed. “Ah, there’s my new talent! Come on in, First Mate O’Malley!”

The two men turned. One was a young man with a five o’clock shadow and curly black hair, hidden under a peaked cap. His uniform was much more dazzling than Bills’ simple getup, decked out with medals and tassels and ribbons. The other was the unsavory character I saw in the hallway, only his gnarled arm was gone, and he was holding it in his other hand.

“Uh, hello,” I said, unsure who to address. “This is the helm, right? I’m not up to date on civilian ship layouts.”

The young man bounded across the room, his golden suit shimmering. “Miss O’Malley? A pleasure to meet you! Hope Verner didn’t give you any trouble!” He threw his head back and guffawed and before I could say anything he started again, without a single gasp of breath, “Commander Bills was just discussing your qualifications to us. A tactical strategist from the Kennedy Center, a surprisingly high demand for you people.”

I blinked, confused, and shook his hand. “You’re Captain De Gama?”

“That I am! What is throwing you off? My age, my good looks, my obvious airs of prosperity?”

“The first one,” I said coldly, already developing a strong dislike for him.

Clearly crestfallen, the captain said, “Oh, well. That is a topic for another day.”

Commander Bills snickered, and the captain shot him a venomous look. “And, since I know he won’t say it, is Mr. Roy Craine, our saboteur, subterfuge, and reconnaissance agent, all wrapped into one sad, broken package.”

Mr. Roy Craine simply twirled his handlebar mustache and watched me with his good eye.




Goldstein -> RE: Of Satellites and Flintlocks (2/2/2012 21:15:37)

“What exactly will my duties be?” I asked as I perused the helm. Once again, the level of professionalism caught me off guard. There were a few illegal-looking pieces of equipment, but they seemed just as high-quality.

“In the field, you will be Commander Bills’ assistant. In the ship, you are my assistant. You will follow orders and your orders will be followed. Savvy?” the captain said.

The weapon systems were all nominal, ticking harmoniously. In the distance, I could see a ship, radiating with orange heat, lazily drift across the starry landscape. We were so alone out here, and yet so crowded…

“I’m good at following orders,” I said, not looking away, “but I’ll need help with issuing orders.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Commander Bills said, joining me at the window. “Experience is a good teacher, but I find he takes forever to get around to teaching ya, so I’ll help you.”

I nodded and turned around, and said, looking pointedly at Captain De Gama, “Commander Bills informed me that if I don’t want to stay, you’ll let me leave?”

“Indeed. Also, you can keep any money you may have earned.” He grinned and pulled a gold necklace from his sleeve and let it hand from his fingers, catching the light and sparkling. “You see, we pirates aren’t such a rotten bunch. You’d be amazed by the generosity we can display…”

He said the last part with such luridness, I could do nothing but laugh. De Gama’s face went blank, but Bills threw his head back and heartily laughed. Even Mr. Craine gave a small smile.

“Sorry Captain, I already tried that!” Bills said between guffaws.

A bit of red seeped into the captain’s pale face, but before he could make me regret my insolence, over the intercom came Verner’s voice, saying, “We’ve arrived at Tortuga. Prepare for a few days of drunken forgetfulness and a few nights of happy companionship!”

The captain grumbled something and adjusted his hat and tossed me a little stack of bills.

“Your starting bonus,” he said. “Try not to spend it all in one place, on, I don’t know, shoes…or perfume…”

Tortuga Station had just two things other than the landing dock: a bar and a hotel. That suited its patrons just fine. When you can’t see straight, you don’t want a long, complicated path back to your bed.

Captain De Gama went off to reserve everyone hotel rooms while the rest of us traversed the dirty, derelict hallways with burned out lights and rats scurrying around.

Ah, here it was. This is EXACTLY how I imagined a pirate station.

The bar was a single, huge room with a domed ceiling. In the center was the bar itself, a huge circle with ten different people making and passing out drinks to all kinds of pirates, some fashionably dressed, some in little more than rags. Everyone was having a good time, swaying in the movement of a music blaring over a loudspeaker. Some kind of techno with a really loud, throbbing bass.

“Try to mingle with the crew,” Bills said. “First impressions are usually better when made under the influence of a good drink.”

I tried to say thank him, but the loud music drowned me out, and he drifted away before I could try again. I pursed my lips, feeling very alone, but then spotted a group from the, or, well, our crew next to the bar, all wearing very dark purple bandanas.

Though the floor was packed with garbage and passed out bodies I managed to reach the table without getting too much crap on my clothes. I pulled up a seat and sat to the far left. None of them recognized or acknowledged me.

“I’m Grace O’Malley,” I yelled over the music. “Your new first mate. I’d like to meet everyone over a…nice drink!”

Only one of them focused on me, and I held his attention not very long. I followed his line of sight and my throat went dry. How I didn’t see the very scantily-clad woman dancing on a pole.

“You into this sort of thing?” she asked, working her eyebrows up and down.

“Uh, no,” I said, and I quickly scooted away without any more awkward moments hoping to occur.




Goldstein -> RE: Of Satellites and Flintlocks (2/13/2012 23:26:09)

The evening was going just as well as I had thought it would be. Commander Bills was drinking shots with some old war buddies. At least, I think they were old war buddies, cause they looked beat up as heck, with peg-legs and eye patches.

“What’s my room number?” I asked abruptly.

“301,” Bills said, sliding my room key across the table. “You’re turning in already? We’ve been here for what, twenty minutes? Have you even spoken to anyone.”

“I’ve seen enough,” I said, snatching the key up.

“A female first mate?” roared one of them with laughter. “Bills, you’re losing it. A screw or two loose? Like she could handle real duties. Besides, there’s probably able-bodied man out there, looking for job. You know women can get a job just about anywhere now a days, if you know what I mean.”

He laughed and went to take a drink from his tankard, but I wrested it away from him and finished the entire thing.

“See you gentlemen in the morning,” I said with a smirk.

Bills laughed and banged his tankard against the table, splashing beer everywhere. “I’ve never regretted a decision less,” he said proudly.

Before he started demanding I pay him for the drink I turned on my heels and left the bar far behind me.

The hotel was only marginally better. The receptionists looked as if she was about to smoke her last cigarette before falling backwards into a coffin, and all the fellows too drunk for the bar hung out in the lobby. They thrust hundred dollar bills at me. At first it confused me, and I finally accepted a wad from a gentlemen in a soiled admiral’s coat.

He unzipped his fly, and I took his meaning. I threw his money back at him and ran the rest of the distance to me room. I locked both locks and propped a chair under the handle.

The chair wouldn’t hold up against a serious assault. Nothing in the room was very well-made. The bed sagged, and the sheets were holey. There was a beat-up Employment Kiosk, which interested me. Considering how poorly the night had gone, I decided to go ahead and try my luck.

I logged into my account pulled up my resume. I hated my profile pictures. It was taken back when I dyed my hair black, since I had read a study that people with auburn hair were less likely to succeed in life. Back when I wore make-up, since the same study said that freckles made you less likely to be promoted…

I checked the “All Possible” box under the desired job section, being picky wasn’t something I could afford. Still, something made me hesitate. Perhaps I didn’t want to know just how unwanted I was. By employers, of course. I pressed the send button, and went to bed, without even taking off my shoes.

Dreams didn’t come anymore. A blessing, if you ask me. Made things a lot more peaceful.

The beeping of Employment Kiosk rouse me from my slumber. A thrill of excitement filled my heart when I ran over and checked the results.

They were overwhelmingly…

Negative. Rejected, rejected, rejected, all in bold red. Not even the mega retailer stores wanted me. Each rejection made me feel more and more down, my initial excitement nearly gone. Then, unbelievably, in bold green, accepted.

Eagerly, I clicked on the link.

It evaporated rather quickly. Accepted, as a chef at a fast food restaurant. $40,000 a year. In a De-Radiation Camp in the barren deserts of Arizona.

That made my mind up. I kicked the chair out from under the door, but not before securing my wallet.

I found the entire crew sitting at one table, or, rather, it was a bunch of tables pushed together, in the hotel’s breakfast room.

Commander Bills sat amongst a group of men, with Mr. Craine to his right, and an empty seat to his left while Captain De Gama dined at the head of the table, mostly alone, his suit spick and span.

I took the seat next to Bills, who waved at the waiter, bringing over a plate of surprisingly hot scrambled eggs and bacon with a glass of orange juice.

The crew ate in silence. That was to be expected, as most most likely had brutal head and body aches.

I finally worked up the courage, and stood up, tapping my fork against my glass.

“Hello, everyone, hello…”

Bills grimaced, drew his revolver, and fire a shot into the air. “The first mate wishes to speak!” he yelled.

The entire crew settled down and turned their attention to me. Some of them looked bored, others skeptical, and others with thinly-veiled malice.

“I am your new first mate,” I said. “But I do not want you all to see me as just a commanding officer. Simply call me Officer O’Malley. Or Grace, even. I care not. You see, I think a crew should obey their officers because they wish to help them, not because they fear punishment. So, to start all of us out on the right foot, I would like to order everyone a mug of the kitchen’s finest brew of coffee. To lessen those horrid headaches!”

A very dubious look passed over everyone’s face. When the waiters passed out the steaming cups filled with dark, clean liquid brown coffee, dubiousness turned into glee. They all cheered, clinked their mugs together, and drank.

“You can’t buy their loyalty,” Commander Bills said quietly as I sat down next to him.

“True, but I can buy their friendliness.”

He chuckled and we tapped our mugs together and drank heartily.




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