Fringe Patrol!

[Shroom Man 777]

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- September 33, 2567 -
- the Mulch System, Colonial Frontier -
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There was a brilliant flash of light, a metasuperspatial contour of fifty-dimensional proportions that infringed upon the four-dimensional confines of tangible realspace, tearing a gaping hole through time and space. The hole lasted but a nanosecond, and emerging from the fifty-dimensional ocean of pseudospatial hyperspace was a ship. A worn-down, boxy hulk of a ship, covered in rust and spacedust. A Sheppard-class cruiser, the starship Bricker B. Fanu. Affectionally called by its crew the ‘Bubbah’.

By its crew of some many thousand men (and no women), a lot of them navy, more of them Colonial Space Militia Although, right now, the crew was down by more than half - thanks to the militiamen getting themselves buried under kilotons of rubble by rebellious fringe-world yokels who didn’t know where their loyalties and Bibles were. The militiamen took most of them with them, but that didn’t make the ship’s crew any less depleted. Or change the fact that the Bricker B. Fanu was still up for another six months of fringe patrol.

Captain Kayne T. Cornhaul thought about this while he sat on his command chair. The bridge was tight and the lights were all dark red, not at all an enlightening atmosphere. Speaking of which, they only had five and a half-month’s worth of air left. Explaining their inevitable early homecoming to the honchos back in Paul-Gideon, that would be tough. Forced retirement, not too bad though…

“Sir,” piped up his Second-in-Command, his SiC. A scrawny bespectacled man named Bobby Cullenhuges. “We’ve entered the Mulch system and are ready to commence anti-piracy patrol of grids four-x-three to nine-theta-niner.”

At this, Cornhaul started thinking. the teloscreen’s display showed that was around a hundred billion mile’s worth of going around in circles and scanning outlying spacerocks.

That would take…well, they certainly had the time.

Bobby the SiC piped out again, declaring: “And after this, we’re going straight to that other system…near the Colonial-Wild Space-Bragulan border. What was it called?”

But they didn’t have the fuel. Or the air.

“Anyway,” the SiC continued. “Warm up the hyperdrives, they’ll take long to charge. Commence the patrol -”

“No!” Captain Kayne T. Cornhaul suddenly bellowed out. He had made his decision.

“Captain?”

“Belay that command,” Cornhaul said resolutely. Bobby had a dumb look on his face, the one that demanded an explaining. And so, with a sigh, he explained. “I’m too goddamned tired of going around doing this shit, son. So, what we’re gonna do is sit here, tight and snug, and break out those McBane holotapes. We don’t have the fuel to spare, so don’t warm up the h-drive. We’re short on air too, so don’t you breathe either. Take a deep breath, cause we’ll be staying here till my birthday and that’s a fact.”

“Sir, this can’t-”

“It can,” replied Cornhaul, cutting his SiC off very rudely. He pressed a button on his command chair. “Captain’s log, spacedate September 33.8, 2567. I’ve ordered the ship to go stationary, give time for the chaplain to administer his rites, give the men some time to grieve. We’ve lost a lot of good boys not too long ago…it’s been hard on all of us. End entry.”

Actually, with hundreds of spacemilitiamen gone, the ship was pretty spacious.

“Sir, what about the patrol?” Bob asked, exasperated.

“What do you think them pirates would do here out in the middle of nowhere?” Cornhaul asked back. Space is huge, unbelievably big. “Nothing, that’s what. I’ll be in my bunk.”

“Sir!” Second-in-Command Bobby Cullenhuges protested.

“Sir!” Lieutenant Butch Corcogan the radar man reported.

“What?!” Captain Kayne T. Cornhaul roared, pointing at Butch.

“A signal, coming from Mulch’s ‘roid belt. A distress signal, sir!”

“Hail it!” commanded Bobby the SiC in place of his maddened Captain.

“Can’t, sir. It’s just repeating the same thing again and again, it’s not a direct call. I got the ship’s sensor reading, coordinates…”

“We have to go there and help them.” Bobby declared.

“No,” Cornhaul countermanded. “It’s a trick pirates use. We’re going there and blowing that ship up.”

“What?!” Bobby shouted in alarm. “You can’t be serious! You can’t be sure! We have to-”

“What?” Cornhaul asked rhetorically. “Our drop ships can’t dock with ships, they have to go in ‘em and that ship is too small.” He pointed to the teloscreen. “You, boy, bring us to gun range.”

“No! You can’t! B-b-but!” sputtered Bobby before he slumped his shoulders in defeat.




It didn’t take long to get to gun range.

“Ready!” Captain Cornhaul declared. “Aim!”

Second-in-Command Robert B. Cullenhuges could only shake his head in despair.

“Fire!”

Almost instantly, the distressed freighter was riddled with holes, relativistic buckshots fired from the space age equivalent of a really big shotgun perforating its unshielded exterior. There were no dramatic explosions, only bodies drifting out of the many holes as decompression threw them off-ship.

Both Cornhaul and Bobby Cullenhuges stared blankly at the screen.

“Shit,” Captain Cornhaul muttered beneath his breath.

“Jesus!” Bobby screamed. “That’s it! I’ve had enough of this!”

Cornhaul regarded him, his own face drained of emotion. But before Bobby could scream anymore, Cornhaul said silently: “Had enough of what?”

Bobby looked at him and screamed, grasping at his hair. “This…bullshit!”

The rest of the bridge crew slowly and silently made their way out of the room.

“Jesus Christ!” Bobby shrieked. He began to make his way to the Captain’s command chair.

Cornhaul stood up. “You’re not supposed to take the name of our Lord and Savior in vain, boy.”

“What?!”

“I said, and I repeat it again for your benefit, you’re not supposed to take the name of our Lord and Savior in vain, boy.” Cornhaul repeated.

Bobby shook his head. “We’re turning this ship around, Captain. And we’re either going to do one of two things. Continue our anti-piracy patrol for six more months, or head straight for Paul-Gideon for your court martial.”

“Whereas I’d like to go home as much as you, boy, I’d much prefer to stay here. In my bunk, with my McBain holos.”

“The teloscreens can’t play holos.”

“Well, fuck me sideways,” Cornhaul exclaimed lightly. “What should I do, then?”

“What I’m gonna do,” Bobby said slowly. “Is relinquish you of your duty.”

“What?” Cornhaul asked, genuinely surprised.

“You heard me…”

“Damn right I heard you, boy!” Cornhaul said, his voice rising. “Are you issuing me an ultimatum? Because you sound like you’re issuing me an ultimatum. Relinquishing of duty, heh!”

“Continue the patrol or go back to Paul-Gideon, sir, it’s your choice. And if not, I’ll make that choice for you!” Bobby said, his voice as firm as stone.

“I ought to smack you across the cheek, boy!” Cornhaul shouted. “Why I ought to-”

Robert B. Cullenhuges, Second-in-Command of the Bricker B. Fanu, drew out his service revolver. “Ought to what?”

“You’re out of line, boy-”

“No, you’re out of line!” Bobby snapped back. “You just killed a ship full of innocent people, all so you could go to your bunk and whack off to some shitty McBain movies! You sick son of a-”

“Relinquish your sidearm, boy!” Cornhaul screamed.

“Not until you relinquish your duty!” Bobby shouted back with all his voice

“Never!”

“Then respect mah authoritah!!!”




The bridge crew stormed in when they heard the gunshot. When they came in, they saw SiC Cullenhuges crumpled up on the floor, clutching his gut. And standing above him, unscathed, was Captain Kayne T. Cornhaul. Beside him, the teloscreen had an ugly hole on it.

“Sir, what happened?” Butch the radar man asked.

“I don’t know myself…” Cornhaul sighed, shaking his head. “He must’ve gotten space-dementia, I had no other choice…”

“What do we do with him, sir?” asked a militiaman.

“Take him to the brig.”

“But sir, we don’t have a brig.”

“Then use one of the airlocks.” They have a nasty tendency to malfunction a lot.