(I'm neither an aspiring novelist or a writer of any talent. I occasionally scribble like a retard for my own amusement and thought I'd share the start of a recent short story that I enjoyed writing with you.)
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The look the guards exchanged was a mirrored mixture of confusion and disgust, that wrinkled nose and curled lip, the furrowed brow that said ‘what the fuck?’ and ‘oh my god!’ in tandem. You heard some strange things through open comms in a major starport but whatever the screaming treble and ear splitting distortion that ripped through their monitor was, it was enough to cause auditory seizures. The larger man leaned forward and tapped the microphone twice and cleared his throat, trying again, this time louder.
“Unidentified craft, this is Alpha Dock command, you are on course for collision. Reduce thrusters and align for port entry.”
This time they got an answer. Not one you'd repeat to a child but definitely an answer. A torrent of profanity spewn from the speakers filled their office above the din of the obnoxious music and as sharply as it came, the line cut out and left their ears ringing in the silence.
It was the sickening sound of pure energy and wailing titanium that shook them from the shock as a wayward vessel first slammed into the port gate wall and then proceeded to skid its way in screaming agony in to the dock, tortured hull shuddering and crying as every fresh new dent and scratch was etched in to the scarred surface to join the company.
The ship itself had once been top-of-the-line, near faultless in design and sleek as a shooting star. The finest minds amongst the galaxy's engineers had created the famous Triumph '54 model and no critic alive could find fault. Here, though, was an orphaned runt of the litter. Where collisions, accident or otherwise, hadn't beaten the hull to shit, the most unnecessary, amateur modifications, hideous decals and bizarre-o graffiti had rendered the spaceship vulgar on every level.
Through the reinforced windscreen, the once gleaming, high-tech cockpit was having no better time of it. An unholy mash-up of teenage-boys-bedroom and rancid-old-crack-den, pornographic posters of big-breasted ‘Space Honeyz’ and cartons of empty junk food were scattered across the terminals and a growing pile of empty liquor bottles, beer cans and the occasional syringe was establishing itself as a permanent fixture beneath the radar display. The sleek alloy framework of the bridge had been “improved” with vibrant painted motifs in electric blue and shocking hot pink and a comedy glowing sex-toy swung merrily from the ceiling with an obscene number of trophy notches crudely scratched in to the plastic.
Pride of place, though, was reserved for two of the most enormous speaker units ever retrofitted in to a spacecraft of this size. A staggering pair of elaborate woofers, happily leeching power from the lateral thrusters while the oblivious owner bopped and leapt about the cabin in an ecstatic, drug-addled trance.
She was smaller than her attitude, of course, a skinny slip of a thing that barely reached over five feet tall and she sprung about the ship on dainty bare feet that were heavily inked. Nimble fingers gripped a pair of dubiously radioactive looking tubes that glowed fluorescent and left a trail as she spun her arms above her head, joyously watching the wake of light they left as she cut her shapes.
The face had a cute prettiness to it, almost an innocence, that was immediately blown away by the half-shaven head and sprawling mass of tattoos, bruises, grime and engine oil that covered nearly everything from her crown to her toes – not to mention the “FUCK OFF AND DIE” t-shirt and the wreaking odour of methylated spirits.
This was Lyca Bones.
Lyca Bones was the holder of numerous unflattering records across the systems she plagued, “most fines for flying under the influence”, “most cautions for breach of the peace”, “highest repair bill for repeat crash landings” and “most ejections from ‘Hank's Hotties’ gentlemen’s club” were amongst her personal favourites but they only told half the story. She’d accrued another reputation on her rampage through the black and it was this that kept her flying: if you had a job that was so dangerous, so outright stupid that every other pilot had told you where to stick it… you went to Lyca Bones. She generally pulled it off, too.
It was the best of her few redeeming features, an addiction that overpowered her need for narcotics, alcohol, tits and deafening music by tenfold and then some again. An addiction for adrenaline. It was the best sensation in the universe and if anyone was qualified to make that statement, she was a hell of a candidate. It wasn’t that she was entirely stupid, risk was, on some level, understood, but that only elevated the excitement.
It lead to all sorts of stories. According to urban legend, Lyca Bones had single handedly pulled off some of the most surreal and nigh-impossible crimes in the galaxy, from stealing exotic pets from high-ranking politicians to pilfering top secret weapons technologies from the federal capital. It was all rubbish but it gave her a buzz to let tongues wag and you’d be stunned how much free liquor a gal could get out of a tall story or two. Plus, when you’re lost so deep in your own high-brand schizophrenia you occasionally forget which ones were made up anyway.
Still, the claims were exaggerated but the lust for excitement was entirely real, possibly the only thing known about the girl that was. Her name definitely wasn’t, she'd picked it herself, naturally, from the name of her favourite pin up (Lyca Lovejugs, Miss Mars 3450 – what a babe) and a psychedelic narcotic she’d grown particularly fond of, crudely nicknamed “Thunderbone” after a rather common side effect on the male anatomy. It wasn’t out of some strange vanity or even to hide from the law, she just couldn’t tell you her real name, where she came from or who produced her. This wasn’t the drugs or the booze zapping her brain cells, either, she’d just been hopping from port to port for as long as she could remember. She was pretty sure she’d never been on a planet and, frankly, the idea didn’t appeal. Space was cool.
“You fucking idiot” a synthetic voice complained from a bridge doorway that had been stuck two-thirds open since a particularly wild night six months ago. Like the ship it occupied, the android stood scalding our pilot was once the pride of its manufacturer but had suffered greatly at the hands of its owner's erratic lifestyle. A 'domestic' three years ago had lead to the forceful disabling of its vocal transmitter and Bones had neither the wealth nor the inclination to replace the unit like for like. Instead, it had been fitted with a prehistoric device that left it sounding like a crippled, twenty-first century scientist, much to its own resentment and Lyca's mirth.
A high velocity glow-stick whistled narrowly by its metallic head followed by a raucous “shudyaface”. Bones spun, slipped and crashed unceremoniously on to her backside with a thump.
The android stared at her with empty, blank features and two lit-up censors that might have vaguely resembled eyes if you were off your face or had never seen a human being before. It shook its head and grumbled on “You are the worst pilot ever.”
“You're the worst robot ever” she was swaying by this point, shaken by the shunt and suffering room-spin that left her stomach churning and head throbbing.
It was at this moment that the alarms started sounding, a deafening racket that screeched over even the roaring storm that pulsed from the amps. The robot glanced up at the flashing red lights that had begun to spin out in the station bay and the waves of federation enforcers that were approaching the ship, blasters in hand. It returned its gaze to Bones with an expectant glance but the pilot had passed out in a heap, dead to the world.
“Shit.”
