Continuing Well, when the props fouled the third time, I suggested we call it a day, as we’d already made some 32 sea-kilometers. We were out on the fringes of the worst of the kelp forest beds, and after a good night’s sleep, we’d be ready to deploy bright and early and get some seismic data acquired and recorded.
But, first, there was the first night aboard ship. In a rusty old tin-can with few creature comforts, as the annual winter monsoon winds wane and the seas actually begin to settle slightly.
I took that as both good omens. The bitching and kvetching I head from the locals about the ‘abominable weather they had to endure’, even from the Coast Guard types, really struck me as uproariously funny.
I just chalked it up to being sequestered from the rest of the world for so long. Put these characters in the path of a Midwestern tornado, East Indian summer monsoon, or Siberian blizzard, and they’d shit themselves blind. I didn’t really think too much of it, although it became somewhat of a game when the imperialistic foreigners tried to one-up each other with horror stories from excursions past.
“No shit”, Dax said, “We were snowed in for a full fortnight.”
“No!” several of us recoiled in mock horror.
“Oh, yah, hey.” Dax continued, “It’s just great when blizzards snap the power lines, and all the toilets freeze. The house cat didn't die until we burned up all our wood. Considering we ate her raw, she tasted pretty good…”
Several of our handlers, a few in the Coast Guard and most of the Korean scientists reacted rather badly to Dax’s story; especially when it had been gorily translated.
Seeing this, Dax stood up, got the soju bottle, and asked if anyone needed a top-up. I asked while puffing away on a large Jamaican cigar if anyone needed a smoke.
At this point, Dax was winning. He had seven of the assembled crowd run to the rail to relieve themselves of our canned Chinese dinner.
Not ever one to shrink from a challenge, I related my second-hand story of my Brother-in-law, who was in the US Coast Guard for years and years. I waited for the green crowd to re-join us and regain what remained of their composure. I figured the quasi-military national Coast Guarders here would appreciate the tale.
Mine wasn’t a gory or shocking tale, just one of the incredible water conditions off the coast of California.
I waited until everyone was settled, drink in hand, and smokin’ ‘em if you got ‘em.
“Well”, I said, “It was on board a ship much like the one we’re currently on,” I said as a rascal wave broke over the railing in counterpoint. “About the same size as this vessel, but with smaller wheels. You know these Coast Guard shallow-water boys”, I chuckled. Always meaning to jab one group or another in the place where I know it stings.
Yeah, I’m a real bastard that way sometimes.
The Korean Coast Guarders sneered hardly at me; but not too hard. They liked my cigars, cigarettes, and open disbursement policy too much.
“Yeah, anyways”, I continued, “He was offshore California in one of the US Coast Guard cutters. It was a boat about 26 meters or so in length. They were out doing search and rescue after a mega-nasty storm blew in from the west and scuttled a sailing regatta race.”
I was drawing them in with my ‘just so’ story, nice and easy, until…
“Yeah, there were several capsized monohulls, catamarans and trimarans. Damn, these things were fucking yachts. Owned by rich idiots that almost knew how to sail but didn’t know enough to get out of the way of a fucking severe storm…”
I really had their attention with ‘soaking the rich’.
“Well, the waves grew and grew, but my Brother-in-laws's boat was built to handle severe weather. These patrol and rescue boat has the capability to roll over 360 degrees and self-right within 30 seconds. Like right now, you’d never even notice this degree rock and roll”, I said as I demonstrated with my cigar, tracing out tighter and tighter rolls, and higher degrees of rocking and rolling.
“They were approaching a capsized trimaran, but the waves kept growing and growing…” I said, leading by example and having them watch me with unblinking attention.
“The waves grew and grew, and normally you’d take these head-on. But that was impossible, because when afternoon came it was slashin' rain, in the face of a hurricane west wind. The boat rolled to the left, heeled, almost keeled, a then rolled the other way just as quickly.” I noted.
They followed me as I timed it with the heavings of our own boat, to the left…to the right…
“Then, just as they were about to reach upon the trimaran, a rogue wave! Out of nowhere”, I said, rocking and rolling along with our own little boat, “
BAM! Hit amidships! It didn’t roll once, it rolled twice!” I made great and magniloquent gestures of a tiny boat being savaged by a monstrous rogue sea wave.
I stood up, blew a great blue cloud of smoke towards the poop deck, and said, loudly, “Rolled over once. A full 360! Then rolled right over again. A full 720 degrees!” as I demonstrated what happened with my cigar and drink.
The eyes following me rolled and rolled as well. Some straight back into the owner’s head and some to the left, some to the right…it was like ‘Loose Slots’ night in Vegas, they were rolling and rolling.
And then racing for the rails. Topside to deliver the remains of their hearty canned dinners.
“Beat you, Dax!” I smiled as I sat back down, “I got nine with that at one. And two of them were Coasties!”
“Did that really happen?” Ivan asked.
“According to my Brother-in-law. But he’s an engineer if you know what I mean…” I smiled.
We concluded story night as we had drifted free of the kelp forest and the Captain of the boat decided he’d risk an anchorage for the night. The weather was ameliorating, the seas calming themselves down, and the wind dropping a couple of notches on the Beaufort Scale.
“Well, gents”, I said, “I need some air. The aroma down here of Chinese Aplo™ for dinner, those who didn’t make it to the rails, and the solitary head for the entire crew has lost its charm. If you’ll excuse me”, I said as I grabbed a bottle of ersatz vodka, and several cans of Taedonggang beer, “I’ll be on the aft deck; in my comfy chair and contemplating the wonder of it all.”
With that, I ventured up the stairs and out onto the aft deck.
Dax naturally followed and he found his own not-bolted-down deck chair. We had a constant flow of visitors, foreign and nationals alike. It was shaping up to be a fine night for being out under the stars, there was no light pollution at all. We sat in our chairs, drank our drinks, smoked our smokes, and argued the finer points of astronomy as seen from this part of the world.
I had several side chats with the scientists and academicians from the Korean side. They all had one thing on their minds. Well, one thing after cigars and cigarettes. They wanted Western scientific journals. They were actually trying to bribe me to get those copies, any age, any subject; of Science, AAPG Explorer, and SEPM Proceedings, anything of Western science as it is today. I said they were welcome to a couple of copies of Science and SPE journals I had brought with as an afterthought, for free. With 900 won to the dollar, they needed every won they could get. I wasn’t about to take anything for the free dissemination of knowledge.
However, if they saw it fit to buy me a drink or seven, I wouldn’t object.
In reality, I’d buy those as well.
We made secret pacts to meet at the hotel-casino the night before we left, whenever the fuck that would be. We had a lot of work before us as it stands. It won’t be for a few weeks, I reminded them.
They had no problem. If I could ask the other in the team if they’d do likewise, the appreciation would be palpable.
Great. Now I have to go get my field notebooks and make some more new entries.
Dax cratered around 0100. I elected to stay the night and sleep under the stars as the boat slowly rocked one way and rolled the other. It was quiet, dark as a tomb, and brilliantly lit up by the stellar backbone of the night once the clouds fumbled out. Tomorrow looked as if it were to be bright and sunny if the gentle westerlies had anything to say about the next day’s conditions.
The next day dawned early, bright, and ridiculously sunny as it usually does when the monsoons have departed and it had stopped raining.
“OK.”, I thought, “Time for a hearty breakfast. For someone else. I wonder what’s available here.”
I ventured down to the cold galley and there were several boxes of dry Chinese breakfast cereal, “Shredded Tweet” and the like, some sort of obviously aged bakery, and a case of Taedonggang beer.
“Hmmm”, I mused out loud, “Beer and rice crispies. Breakfast of champions.”
Dax walks in, rubbing his eyes. He sees me drowning my rice cereal in foamy ersatz milk.
“Reminds me of field camp!” I smiled as I chowed on the morning’s offerings.
After our ‘hearty’ breakfast, all the scientific parties gathered in the main stateroom. It was cramped, but the walls were magnetic and we could hang maps, well, charts actually since we’re well offshore now, and plots the day’s course.
Out in the Yellow Sea, we were supposedly over a subsurface, and by dint of being offshore, submarine, dome. Salt dome? Unlikely. Probably more of a
shale dome, which isn’t a bad thing when hunting for oil and gas.
Looking at the charts, I ask the locals what our current position was relative to the domal uplift.
After several long moments of silence, I asked again.
“Umm, guys”, I said, “If you’re not going to be forthcoming with something as simple as positional data, then turn this boat 180
0’s and take us back to shore. I am fed up, as are my team, with this tight-holing of the simplest of data when you are the knotheads that asked us here for help. We get paid either way, and I for one wouldn’t mind being paid triple to sit in the hotel’s basement and drink”
After telling the translator to translate that last part literally, I sat back, pulled out a really nasty cigar, and went through all the threatening moves of firing it up in the enclosed cabin.
“You will have to excuse us”, came the reply from one of the elders, “We are not used to dealing with
oegugseon [foreigners].”
“Are you used to following orders?” I asked brusquely.
“Of course!” came the near-unanimous reply.
“Great. Then consider this an order: You will relay the appropriate information when asked by any Westerner on this cruise. Consider it as coming from the Supreme Leader of this expedition.” I noted.
Using the term ‘Supreme Leader’ was both a bow to their current bad-hair-cut in charge and my desire to let them know I was serious as a kick to the scrotum about the whole fucking deal.
There were a couple of gasps and some consternatious talk, but eventually, one brave soul got up, walked over to the chart, and pointed to our relative location.
“There”, I added, “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Didn’t hurt in the least, did it?”
There were a few chuckles amongst our national colleagues, so I figured that was at least a little progress.
“OK, then”, I continued, “Volna? Ack? You’re up to bat.”
I turned the proceedings over to the geophysicists. They would devise the configuration of the towed array, our speed, direction, charge size, which was based on depth, and all the other geophysical flips and twists one has to do in order to acquire the best data.
This shit doesn’t come cheap. The Mesozoic-Paleozoic marine residual basin in the South Yellow Sea where these domes live is a potentially significant deep potential hydrocarbon reservoir. However, the imaging of the deep prospecting target is quite challenging due to the specific seismic-geological conditions. In the Central and Wunansha Uplifts, the penetration of the seismic wavefield is limited by the shallow high-velocity layers (HVLs) and the weak reflections in the deep carbonate rocks. With the conventional marine seismic acquisition technique, the deep weak reflection is difficult to image and identify. We confirm through numerical simulation that the combination of multi-level impulse source (i.e., explosive) array and extended cable used in the seismic acquisition is crucial for improving the imaging quality.
With that, we’re going to be recording a minimum of four stacks, with a receiver interval of 25 meters. The array will have a shot interval of 50 meters, with a 25 meter near offset, and a 2500 meter far offset. We will attempt to record 180 channels, off-end, with a sampling period of 0.5 seconds, and a record length of 5 seconds. We’ll sail the same course 4 times to verify previous records and attempt to add ‘fold’, i.e., extra data from the same point, to the overall records.
That’s the plan, at least.
Loads of preparation, logistics, and execution.
After a half an hour or so, both Volna and Ack are finished with the national scientists.
They set down their notebooks, pens, notes, and pointers; walk out of the meeting room and directly over to the galley.
“Hungry, fellas?” I inquire.
“Rock?”, Ack asks, “You have explosives here, right? Sink us. Just fucking sink us right now.” As he pours himself and Volna a stiff shot of real vodka.
“Uh, oh. Problems in Dreamland?” I ask, utilizing the derogatory name for the geophysical domain of exploration data.
“Un-be-fucking-believable.”, Volna adds.
“Your colloquial American is coming along well, Volna.” I snickered a bit.
“I learn from you”, he spat, “Cannot believe this. They don’t record while underway. They tow single array and stop. Then drop dynamite over side. They record. Then they do it again. Claim this gives them good fold. This is bullshit. You said devise program. HA! Take us to shore and let me teach them the fucking basics of geophysical acquisition. Then in a few years, we come back and do it right.”
“Oh, fuck”, I reply, wincing, “That bad?”
“Oh, no”, Ack continues, “It’s worse.” As he down 100 milliliters of booze in one draught and pours another for Volna and is own self, “No on-board demultiplexing. No on-board pre-processing. No-onboard QA/QC. No on-board anything. It’s fucking hopeless. Sink us, I’d rather take my chances with the sharks.”
“They
can’t do all that stuff or they
won’t do all that stuff,” I asked, expecting the worst.
“Oh, it
might be possible, with this museum-grade crap they call a computer they have on-board. It’s just time-consuming, tricky, and will need constant attention. But with this raft of sad-sacks, flub-a-dubs and third rate hobbyists?” Ack and Volna agree as one.
“Consider it job security”, I replied, “How about this? One test loop and we use that data to do what’s necessary; just once. Then we can say we’ve shown them the way. After that, I’ll leave it up to the National scientists.”
“Good thing we have 2 full days, Rock”, Volna said, “Because we do a single AC (acquisition) run, it’ll take the rest of the time to show these buggers how it’s done.”
“Ack? You agree?” I asked.
Ack agreed, in spades.
“OK, gentlemen”, I said, “Let’s make it so. About time, too. I haven’t blown anything up in a couple of weeks. I’m getting antsy. Let’s go tell them the good news.”
“NO! WE REFUSE!” was the cheery response from the nationals when Ack, Volna, and I laid out the rather lengthy program for the next couple of days.
“OK. Someone tell the Captain to head for home. We’re done here.” I calmly told our handlers and the translators.
Panic in Pyongyang.
Immediately, there is this hue and cry about how this was not supposed to be how this trip was going to work. This was to be an acquisition trip only. This was to be a one-off to show Best Korea geophysical prowess. This was supposed to be data gathering trip
on the Western scientists…
Oops.
That last one was a bit of a mistake.
I turn to one of the translators and ask them to re-translate that last part, just in case I was hearing imaginary things.
“Oh, yes”, he replied, “He said they were here to gather data on the Western Scientists as well as offshore data.”
“Is that a fact?” I reacted. “Please tell them I need to see all my team members on the fantail immediately if you would. Sorry, translators and nationals not included in this little meeting.”
We reconvene on the fantail a few minutes later. I walk in on this little conclave with cigar and drink in hand.
“OK, gents”, I say, puffing a huge blue cloud, swigging a tot, “Here’s what I think we, as responsible international scientists, should do in this regrettable situation. We were asked to come here, with provisions that we would not be under cynosure, observation, or surveillance. Given ‘Open and Free Access’, no questions asked. We were to be treated as “esteemed guests”. This is obviously a load of dingo’s kidneys. I think we need to get as creative as possible and do whatever we can to provide as much deliberate misinformation to these characters to annoy, amaze, or disgust them as much as possible. Comments?”
There’s a general buzz, but no real dissention. After a few moment's discussion, Dax suggests we get a load of XXXXL condoms, and leave them around packaged as “Texas Medium”.
“That’s the spirit”, I reply. “Anyone one else up for a little Psychological Operations on our not-so-clever-nor-truthful hosts?”
We all agree that we will, in our own little way, start a campaign of deliberate misinformation, misdirection, and general petty bullshit nastiness for our hosts to discover and by which be dismayed.
Everyone’s in agreement. This trip has been a rotund bale of jeers from the get-go.
Promises made, promises broken. Itineraries approved then inexplicably disapproved. We make requests, they accede; and then nothing ever happens. It’s most frustrating.
We’re tolerating a lot of horse, bull, cow, and assorted other farmyard excrements; all in the name of international harmony and scientific goodwill. This has been an outgoing one-way street for too long. We’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore.
“Hellfire and Dalmatians!” I growl, growing angrier every minute I think about the subject, “We need to take the high, low, and middle ground on this offensive. Nothing too overt or obvious; however we need to jank these bastards good. But they can’t realize they’re being janked…!”
Ack cuts in.
“The esteemed Dr. Rock is right. Psychotic...but absolutely right. We got to take these bastards. We could fight them with conventional weapons. That could take years...cost millions of lives. In this case... I think we have to go all out. I think this situation absolutely requires...a really futile and stupid gesture... be done on somebody's part.”
There’s a general buzz among the assembled.
“And we're just the guys to do it.”
Shouts and catcalls of deep agreement.
“Operation ‘Confound-a-Korean’” is now enacted.
“About fucking time!”
“Let’s do it!”
“Dissen gonna be bery messy! Me no watchin!”
“OK, I think, “Who’s the prequel-series wiseass?”
“OK, gentlemen”, I continue, “We continue with our scientific duties. No fucking around there. But, when it comes to…interpretation…opinion…or personal viewpoint; let’s go full impede. Dazzle them with brilliance or baffle them with bullshit.”
We all agree and after a couple of quick rounds of old thought provoker, we realize this trip has just taken a hard left into Wackyland. We will have to let our comrades onshore know of this, but that can wait until we return. Right now, we all have jobs to do. Real jobs, serious jobs, covert and sneaky jobs…
So, it’s back to the recording shack as we lay out the plans for the next couple of days.
Volna begins: “OK, listen up you primitive screwheads. We’re going to assemble and layout a recording array that’s called a Meisenheimer Triplet. You do know what a simple Meisenheimer Triplet is, don’t you?”
There’s a slight murmur from our national friends, but in the end, they all plead ignorance.
“Right. Thought so. A Meisenheimer Triplet is a central towed array flanked by two shorter, subparallel flanking sub-frammitz arrays. We will assemble this array on-board, even though it’s probably going to take every ounce of silver solder and electrician’s tape you’ve got. The amount of data received is orders of magnitude greater than any single Sheriff-sonde array, like the ones you been using.”
Suddenly, there are nods and murmurs of agreement.
“Right”, Volna smiles sinisterly to me, “With that, we’ll need to devise an explosive package, well, actually, a series of explosive packages based on the harmonia of the pre-bottom fore-sets, water depth, tow vehicle velocity, water column density, and decomposition coefficients of the said water column. Oh, yeah. Fish too.”
Volna is really getting into the spirit of the affair.
“Who is your explosives engineer?” Ack asks, “He’s going to have to do some serious number-crunching with all the pre-blast data we’ll need to supply. “
One quick translation and there’s nothing but long faces and querulous looks from our national crowd.
“We have no explosives engineer”, the head Best Korean geophysicist laments. “Explosives are very, very heavily regulated by the government. That’s why we have several Government Observers on board. They handle the explosives.”
“Oh?” Ack remarks, “Are they fully up to speed on the Barnard-Reichmann equations for hydro-displacement of serial charges? Which subset of the marine rarefication coefficients do they employ?”
“Ummm, don’t know.” was the answer.
“Don’t know? Well”, Volna continues, “Then, they must be pretty good with the Langefors-Kihlström formulae, right?”
“No. Not as such.” Came the response.
“I see”, Ack sighs, “Well, then, I guess they must utilize the Il’yushin algorithms then. OK, it’s a bit old school, but they should still work.”
“Ah. Well. No.” was the rejoinder they offered.
“Well, then what the fuck do they use?” Volna explodes, “A modified Ambraseys-Hendorn model? Ghosh-Damen 1? Ghosh-Damen 2? Indian Fargin Standard? Prejaculated Rai-Singh protocols, fer’ chrissake? Which?”
Nothing but shaking heads and wringing hands.
“They take a case of dynamite, wire it up, and throw it overboard with a long fuse.” Was the eventual answer. “That’s why we stop to record.”
Long, exasperated sigh later, “Jesus Q. Tapdancing Christ on a crème cracker. No wonder you never get anything done.” Volna continues, “You characters are in luck. You just happen to be so lucky to have an internationally-renowned Master Blaster right here on board ship today.”
Volna turns the crowd over to me, “Doctor? Do your damnedest. And good luck.”
“Thanks, Volna”, I say, cigar in one hand, stalwart drink in the other, “OK, guys. Here’s the deal. When it comes to explosives and explosive design, I’m the hookin’ bull.
No one has authority over me. Not the Captain. Not the boson’s mate. Not the Captain’s Consort even. Nor the guys in the cheap shiny suits. What I say, goes. No exceptions. No hesitation. We
green or are we going back to shore?”
“
Cholog?” they ask.
“Yes. ‘
Cholog’. Green. Are we understanding one another? Are we all in agreement?
Are you fuckin’ diggin’ me, Beaumont?”
There’s some quick back and forth in Korean, a lot of seeming bad noise. Even the shiny suit squad and Coasties join in the fun.
“Grudgingly, we agree.
Green as you say, Doctor Rock. You are the one in charge.” Came the head national’s reply.
“Splendid. I’m in charge of the charges.” I chuckle, puffing an enormous cloud of expensive Oscuro smoke, “Volna, Ack; please get me the required parameters. I’ll be in the ordnance locker to see what we’re working with here. C’mon fellas, chop-chop!”
Volna and Ack take their select set of geophysical wishers and wannabes while I get the rest of the locals, the shiny suit squad in reserve, but in tow.
I head off to the ordinance locker.
Dax runs behind “Hey! Wait for me.”
“We have to”, I snigger a reply, “We’re going to need a drinks runner.”
“Marvelous…” was the one-word response.
We get to the locked ordinance locker. It’s one of the few original structures remaining on the ship. The boat was torn down almost to the waterline and re-built for seismic acquisition, but they had enough brains to realize that the source of the seismic signals was usually explosive in nature. Dinoseis and Mini-Sossie were closed books to them.
Therefore, the locker remained intact, however grudgingly.
“Whew! And what a locker.” I whewed. “And what a lock. OK, who’s got the keys?”
There are general hemming and hawing and no one seems to know where the keys for the ordinance locker are kept.
“Well, gents”, I say, pointedly, “I would suggest that one or more of you toddle off and fucking find the goddamn keys or this will turn out to be a very short and unproductive trip, indeed.”
A while later, a bit longer than I personally care for, the boat’s Captain wanders up, all a-scowl and generally pissed-off looking.
“Who here needs the key to the explosives locker?” He asks in his Captainly, no-nonsense manner.
There’s more muttering and murmuring, but eventually, all fingers point toward me.
The Captain looks at me.
“Hello.”
He’s giving me the once over with a LASER stink eye. I don’t know which irritated him the most; the lit cigar, the drink, the Stetson, Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, Scottish knee socks or field boots.
“And who the hell are you”? He asks, oh, so wrongly, through an interpreter.
I stand up, fully puffed to full mammalian threat posture and say in a loud steady voice;
“I’m THE Doctor Rocknocker, the
MOTHERFUCKING PRO FROM DOVER!, that’s who.”
Since I had a good 6 inches and way too many kilos on him; my loud, American and very un-oriental answer took him completely by surprise.
His eyes got as big as dinner plates and he shakily held out the ring of keys for the explosives locker.
“Why thank you very much”, I said, bowing in his direction ever so slightly. Wasn’t his fault he wasn’t totally clued in on
all the recent goings-on aboard his vessel.
I toss the keys to Dax, “Here, earn your keep.” I snickered.
Dax deftly fields the keys, chuckles back, and begins the game of ‘which key for which lock’?
I thank the Captain and explain that I’m the
de facto leader of this special education class, and make some pointed, mild epitaphs about landlubbers, national scientists, and the cargo of the totally clueless on board.
He sees I’m not a total boor and relaxes some. We haven’t really had a real introduction, so I grab a translator and engage the Captain in a short, though insightful conversation.
Cigars were exchanged. Handshakes were as well.
Seems he’s just as aggravated by these know-it-alls who really know-fuck-all. We see eye to eye and part friends once Dax finally figures out the combination to the weapons locker.
“Holy fuck!” I exclaim, “Now
that’s a door.” I say looking at the slowly-opening covering of the weapon’s portico. Fully five solid inches of solid steel. Triple reinforced hinges. Deadman's latches. Bringles-jams and solid, non-decabulated cast-steel cross-members.
Just the thing to contain an errant blast and send all that excess energy skyward instead of into the bowels of the boat.
OK, bonus points for that design feature.
I look inside, but it’s dark and fragrant as the inside of an irritated oyster in the bottom of the Tonga-Kermadec Trench.
Dax fumbles around and finds the light switch.
FLIP
“Hmmm.” I hmmed. “Well, we’re all set for dynamite, I see.”
Case after case after case of leaking, cheap-ass Chinese knock-off sort-of Du Pont-style 50% dynamite. Box after box of Pseudo-Dyno-Nobel blasting caps. Delaminating, unwinding spools after spool of “PrimUcord”. Sticky “Korea” brand silk-woven coated Demolition Wire.
“Gads.” I sigh. “What a nightmare. Either this stuff goes off when you give it a dirty look or it doesn’t go off at all.”
Dax looks to me, “So, the trip’s a bust. Is that what you’re saying?”
“If we don’t find something that’ll work, probably,” I reply. “This shit’s worthless.”
We continue to search after I shoo everyone but Dax out of the locker. It’s damp and musty in here, smelling disconcertingly of kerosene, gherkins, and old sardines. That’s one sure sign of dynamite going bad. I warn Dax to be extra careful, that this stuff hasn’t had the best of handling. We could be in for an unexpected surprise.
So, we redouble our efforts and are much more circumspect.
Knock-off this and fake-ass that.
All Chinese in origin. It might have worked one day; but after sitting in here, unattended, unturned, and uncared for? I’m ready to both literally and figuratively pull the plug on this whole fiasco.
Dax is all smiles.
“Doctor?” Dax asks, “What is it that would make you happy?”
“A nice fishing boat, a huge never-emptying bank account, endless cigars, and a comfy chair back in the north of Baja Canada in a tavern on a good fishing lake,” I replied.
“Well”, Dax smiles, “I can’t do that, but how about this?” as he opens a cleverly hidden door.
I look in, let my eyes adjust to the low-light scenario to see no lakes, no huge bank accounts, nor fishing boats; but what I do see makes me smile wide.
It’s a sub-locker full of familiar Made-in-the-USA, True Blue, American-manufacture
cyclo-trimethylene-tri-nitramine, or Good Ol’ C-4 explosive. Block after lovely hexahedral block of the stuff.
“Dax”, I say, “Take a gold star out of petty cash. You’ve just saved the mission.”
“I’ll settle for a tall vodka and one of your cigars”, Dax smiles.
“Later”, I say, “We now have a little job which to attend.”
With C-4, designing the impulse charges is seriously a walk in the park. They’re already waterproof, so all I need is water depth and the number of seconds to which they want to record data. I can bundle a series of blocks of the stuff, charge them with a couple-three or four, just in case, blasting caps, and connect them with stout lengths of demolition wire. These will be dragged, with a ‘Herring Dodger’, to control depth, behind the boat as
we are underway.
It’s a novel idea, I know. One that’s only been in use in the west for about 60 years.
We’ll drag a daisy chain of C-4 packets. One after another, individual charges in the packets will detonate milliseconds apart. I can bundle the packets so that we can run a charge string of up to 12 discrete packets which will attenuate the amplification of the arrhythmic flux, I tell one of my Korean onlookers.
With this set-up, we can record data for literally sea-miles.
First, we will
moosh the C-4 into a flattened, semi-hydrodynamically stable pancake or airfoil, OK, hydrofoil, shape; wire three or five of them together, charge them, then repeat.
Depending on what parameters Volna and Ack supply, the chain will just be a number of similar packets, trailing one after the other, detonating from back to front; down below the hydrophones, but well above the seafloor.
We know that the hydrophones will be at or very near the surface, but we need to know, explicitly, the basal bathymetry of the area we're about to shoot. Wouldn’t do anyone any good if we drove over a seafloor hump and dragged the C-4 over it to have it detonate prematurely.
Or not at all.
So, we need to plot our course and sail it today while we get the hydrophone arrays built and we image the seafloor where we’re going to do some blasting. After that, it’ll probably be an all-nighter to create the blasting strings so we can spend the next day recording, and then head for home as we’re nearly out of victuals and potables.
At least, that’s the plan.
I convene a quick meeting and we plot a course on the latest charts. 30 kilometers of recording.
Shit, that’s going to be a lot of explosives. Doable, but a pain.
Remembering the quality of the recording equipment, I suggest we do a test run in the morning of just 5 kilometers. If that works, and we can up it in increments.
Dax, Sagong the head Korean geophysicist, and I go to visit the Captain.
We visit the Captain and lay out our plans. He has no objections, as were in Best Korean waters and there are no obstacles out here like sunken wrecks, kelp forests, American aircraft carriers, or other impediments.
With that, we tell him to align the ship and let us know when he can begin doing the recon sortie.
He says that he can do that immediately, and before we're out of the pilothouse, we’re recording bathymetric, i.e., depth, data. The technology’s not much different, nor advanced, than a standard Lake Winnebago fish finder, so that’s one disaster sorted.
We are sailing along in a series of parallel straight lines, which when the data are played back and deconvoluted, will give us a good idea of the bathymetry which we’ve been motoring over. It’ll basically give us both a depth map and a surface, ok, bottom, map of the seafloor above which we’re sailing. A little basic submarine hyperbolic quantum trigonometry and well, we have the data we need to plug into the various equations to see what we’ll require when we want to record seismic data to 5000 milliseconds.
With that, there’s not much else to do until we have the survey map. I dragoon Dax and Cliff into helping me inventory the explosives bunker.
“The hell with the dynamite, PrimUcord, and other Oriental-Knockoff Horseshit”, I instruct my helpers, “Let’s just count up the C-4, and see what our tally is. Oh, yeah, give me a tally of the blasting caps. Gotta use those ratty bastards, they’re the only actuators here I sort of, kind of, trust.”
With Dax, myself, and Cliff, we’re done in less than an hour. I decide that I’ll be the keeper of the keys and take them back to the Captain my own self. Rules of engagements, chain of command and all that hogwash.
I hand the keys over to the Captain and instruct the co-pilot to make an entry in the logbook that I returned the key to the Captain, this date, this time.
“By the book. It’s not just a good idea, it’s the law.” I muse.
To be continued…
submitted by The year was 2268. Humanity had stretched throughout the reaches of our own solar system and beyond. We were now a united species, one nation exploring the cosmos under a single name: “human race”. The Earth still remains, as well as many other planets in our solar system, the only difference is that back then... they were inhabited. Planet and space travel was simply like a bus route with destinations throughout the stars.
1
A man awoke in his star cruiser with a startled jolt upright, followed by his own hyperventilating. A voice spoke from the shadows, “Did ya have another one pal?” “Shut Up, Stripes” the man responds. The voice chided him, “Listen Kid, that day was fuckin’ ages ago. Let Go”. The man before you’s real name is unknown. However, he is better known as “The Northern Cowboy” throughout Earth and neighbouring planets. Now you see, The Cowboy was a hero to the people of Earth. That voice in the back, the man known as Stripes was a hero as well, or he was until he lost his entire physical body in the biggest battle in human history.
The society in this time may been advanced one, but it still has its conflicts. Now, one of these conflicts made these men heroes, The Battle for Humanity was the largest battle in human history. The entire species divided, two massive armies lead by two political groups went head to head. The Planetarian group; a party that believes the population should merge and become one nationality to be recognized as human. Then, there's the Individuals, people wanting the borders to remain on our planet and to preserve cultures. The decision for the dominant party wasn’t one to be made in a courtroom, no one could decide on a party to put in charge. The dominant half needed to rise. Was it time for drastic change? Or was it time to preserve? That is what this fight would’ve decided.
The two armies clashed all over the solar system and fought for 12 whole years in continuous battle. Now this fight never ended, it was stopped. Stopped by exactly 390 heroes, two men or women from each country on Earth stood tall and decided to rally and stop this war. This was seen as an impossible feat for any normal human, but these people weren’t normal, they were extraordinary. They possessed abilities and powers only a fraction of the human race had. Some people were born with their abilities, like it was the next step of human evolution, others acquired them through science or an altering incident of some sort; these people were like folklore of their home countries, mere myths. However, the myths soon became reality when these people aligned with one another. Using their abilities, they arrived in the middle of the front lines of every battle between both armies and held them off. Eventually, these armies stopped their clash and listened to what these heroes had to say. These incredible men and women were seen as gods among mortals, and the leaders of both sides decided that if these people found a way to stop the fight and bring the society together, it would be worth listening to and trying. Soon after the war ended, a united party was formed and governed all of humanity. The Planet Earth Society was formed; a society that kept our individualities present on Earth, but we explored the cosmos and functioned our government as one species.
Now, back to our two heroes. The Northern Cowboy was a hero out of Canada, and Stripes was his partner out of the states. These men had some extremely powerful abilities; Stripes, a once massively built man, had the power to control electronics and machines with his mind, and The Cowboy, a tall man who stood at about 6’1 with two different coloured eyes, one black and one blue, had the ability to generate and manipulate lightning out of his body. All heroes were as strong as this, if not more. So obviously, it was no wonder they were able to stop the imminent war. However, the victory didn't come without its share of sacrifices. Stripes was gunned down between the two armies. A seasoned war vet like himself couldn’t avoid his own demise at the age of 42. But as a last act of desperation, he transferred his consciousness into the computer in the Star Horse, their ship; Immortalizing himself into his own starcruiser. Now, The Cowboy had his own tragedies as well, involving the death of the other Canadian hero... but we’ll get to that later.
“Where are we Stripes?” the Cowboy asked groggily, “About 300 miles away from the Red Dust Casino, in the Mars Orbit.” Every planet with a ground to stand on had been terraformed so that it was habitable for humans, and Mars was like the Las Vegas of the solar system, a planet for the rich and famous. “Are we making a pitstop, kid?” Stripes asked. The Man nodded, “Yeah but this ain’t for pleasure, we’ve got business to attend to at the Red Dust Grand Hotel”. Stripes replied, “Alright Cowboy I’ll bring us down for a landing-” The Cowboy interrupted, “Hold it, stop over top of the Crimson Canyon, I’ve got something to do first. Open the hanger for me would ya?” After a morning cigarette and a shot of whisky for breakfast, The Northern Cowboy boarded his one man fighter; a black, modified advanced secret service ship with a hand-painted white stripe down the middle. On the side of the fighter was a name painted in red, it read “Le Pew”. The Cowboy fired up his engines and shot out of the ship, and right into the depths of the canyon.
The canyon The Cowboy had just ventured into was a place named Futurado Gorge. This canyon had a reputation all around the star system of being a dangerous death trap that only fools would venture into. So knowing this, Stripes questioned his partner's motives and speaks over the comm, “Hey Kid what the hell are ya doin’ divin’ into a place like this?” He responds, “Don't worry about it Stripes I know what I'm doing”, “alright whatever kid”. The Cowboy had discovered a while back that the water in this cave had unusual properties to it; the water allowed the person who touched it to see parts of their future, so being the clever guy that he is, he uses it to his advantages sometimes. When the Cowboy reached the bottom of the gorge, he got out of his ship and knelt down and touched the water…
The Cowboy’s eyes lit up for a moment and then he saw his entire life flash before his eyes, and then the vision showed itself to him, he sat back, shook his hands dry, and lit a cigarette. After a few minutes of pondering, he stood up and shrugged. He spoke to himself, “So that's how I go, huh? It's a bit sooner than I would’ve thought. Oh well, guess it can’t be helped” He threw his cigarette into the water and got back into his ship.
2
On the top floor of the Red Dust Casino, there’s a meeting between two men. One man is a criminal who runs the Casino and uses it for a drug and money laundering scheme to supply dealers throughout the solar system. His name is Isaac Pantangellini, an average height man but powerfully built nonetheless, he had tanned skin with jet black hair slicked back into a mullet. The other man was a short and unhealthily thin young man called Mouse, with matted brown hair and sharp facial features; he is a bright young man in the drug business; but it seems he’s bit off more than he can chew with his most recent scam.
Pantangellini started his rant towards Mouse by puffing his own ego a bit. He speaks aggressively, “Look dipshit, you don’t know who you fucked with. I own this casino and the resort, I’m not the manager or the bouncer, I'm the OWNER. I'm also a man who doesn’t put up with nobody’s shit, I have half of all the Mars cops on my payroll and the other half knows they can’t screw with me, I OWN this town. So tell me this kid, WHAT IN THE NAME OF JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH DID YOU THINK WOULD HAPPEN WHEN YOU TRIED TO SCAM ME?!” Mouse responds with a cool ignorance towards the riled up mob boss, “To be honest, what I thought would happen is that I’d grab one of the cases of money you launder through this joint to cover your drug business, and then I’d escape and you’d never see me again. But ya know what? You can go eat Venus Baboon shit, you fogey, I don’t care if ya caught me” Pantangellini was fuming mad from his disrespectful demeanor. He stood up from his desk, pulled a gun out of the holster concealed by his blazer, held it over Mouse’s head and brought the base of the gun onto the bridge of the kid’s nose so hard the cartilage in his face was smashed into oblivion and his cheekbones were shattered. Mouse crumpled to the floor after falling out of his chair. The casino boss pointed to his two henchmen at the door, “Hey you two, take this asswipe out back and put as many bullets as you want into the back of his head.” He then pointed to the blood on his marble floor and said, “Oh and get someone to clean this mess up.”
At that very moment, The Cowboy touched down into the casino’s ship lot and parked his vessel there and put on his red trench coat, “Are ya gonna pay for the valet service kid?” asked Stripes, “Fuck no, I’m not made of money pal” The Cowboy responded. “What happened to givin’ back to the community?” asked Stripes. His partner talks back through the comm, “We gave up that hero of the people stuff remember? We do this to get paid now” “Just givin’ ya hell kid, lighten up a bit would ya?” The Cowboy sighed and walked towards the back door of the casino; just as he approached the door, it was slammed open and out rushed two burly men in suits dragging a badly beaten, sickly looking young man who was unhealthily thin. The men passed the Cowboy. The ex-hero took a few more steps before stopping, cursing himself as he turned around to walk towards the men. The men had the beaten man on his knees with a gun to the back of his head. The Cowboy approached the men and obnoxiously asked, “Hey do any of you boys got a light?” One of the men turned on the stranger who had just approached him and pulled a gun on him, “Woah easy partner, I just need a light.” The Cowboy said passively. The man responds, “Piss off punk, or you're next”. The Cowboy continued to walk towards the thug, unfazed by the gun pointed in his direction. The thug fired. In a flash of blue light, the bullet seemed to miss its mark and then the thug was on the ground writhing in pain.
The Cowboy stood over the thug, stepped over his crumpled body and approached the second man. The second thug turned around and pulled his gun on the Cowboy. In a seemingly effortless motion the Cowboy had smashed the man's leg with a side kick and landed a knee to the man’s chest. The thug staggered for a minute and stood up again, firing away at the ex-hero. The Cowboy leapt out of the way of the bullets and snapped his fingers at the man and simply said “Bang”. Lightning shot out of the Cowboy’s hand and sent the thug flying a good 100 yards away. The Cowboy turned and walked away, lighting a cigarette. He looked over his shoulder and said to the beaten man, “Get to a hospital yourself, I’m not your fuckin’ babysitter”
3
The Cowboy sat at the casino bar and took a look around the place, a lively venue with a gold color pallette on seemingly every surface. The place was filled with people all dressed up in tuxedos and fancy silk dresses surrounding gambling tables and blackjack pits. The barmaid took a look at the Cowboy and was intrigued, he didn’t look the part of a gambler, he wore a casual, but wrinkled, black suit with a white shirt and black tie, and a faded red trench coat overtop. She walked over to him at the end of the bar and started talking “Howdy stranger, what corner of the stars did you wander in from?” He calmly replies, “Oh a place a lot worse than this one, can you get me an Old Fashioned?” She made him the drink and placed it in front of him, he knocked it back in a couple long gulps and then asked, “Do you know how to get to the top floor? I’ve got to have a chat with the man who runs this joint” She was less interested in the man now, “Oh he’s just another drug dealer here to see the guy upstairs” she thought. She then asked him “Here to close a deal?” “No sweetheart I'm here for him” he replied as he pointed upwards. She then asked,”A hitman?” The Cowboy replied, “Not quite, thanks for the drink” and got up and left without paying. He only left a bullet, sliced in half and scorched, on his napkin.
The first floor service elevator doors were always locked in the casino, it was the way to get up to the top floor office where Pantangellini hid out. The Cowboy walked up to the doors and pried them open and opened the top hatch in the elevator. He then used his lightning to charge the cable and the elevator shot upwards, he stopped it when it got to the top, he composed himself for a moment and blasted the doors open. The men in the office were startled by the massive explosion coming from the elevator and the doors shattering, which followed the initial bang. Out stepped the Cowboy, through a cloud of dust coming from the door. “Hey your elevator kinda sucks, the doors wouldn’t open” he said cooly. All the men in the room, including Pantangellini pulled their guns and fired into the dust and at the man that stood before them. The Cowboy walked backwards into the dust in the midst of the gunfire. After a minute or two of continuous fire, Pantangellini was shoved from behind. Everyone turned around shocked, to see the Cowboy behind the men, he had moved so fast no one had seen him get behind them. The Cowboy took Pantangellini’s gun from his hands with a quick jerk, and fired into all the men’s shoulders and knees; except for the mob boss who was now shaking in fear.
The Ex-hero kneeled down and was face to face with the criminal. He spoke, “You’re worth a fat $300 000 bounty Pantangellini. It seems like the all cops weren’t under your control, and that bounty’s all mine” Pantangellini was somewhat relieved he wasn’t going to be killed. He had to be brought in alive. “Stripes call the cops to the top floor, I’m not bringing him to ‘em” he said over his comm. “Alright Cowboy” his partner responds. The mob boss on the floor, who had now soiled himself, spoke with some confidence now that he knew he wasn’t going to be shot. He looked up at the man who had just brought him down and spoke, “You’re a filthy fuckin’ bounty hunter, you won’t last a week! You hear! YOU’RE DEAD! WHO ARE YOU?!” As if it was scripted, the Cowboy lights a cigarette and says in his trademark nonchalant tone, “Who me? Well, I’m just an old fashioned cowboy”.
4
On the other side of the asteroid belt orbiting Titan, one of Saturn’s moons, there was a large cruiser. The cruiser was owned by the Syndicate Of The Blue Moon, the largest crime organization in the solar system. The Syndicate was the unofficial ruler of the criminal underworld, they had immense power and resources; that of which rivaled the government. These people were no joke and certainly nothing to be taken lightly, their leader was a cruel and powerful man with incredible abilities. His name, The Midnight Gladiator. He could control and generate fire, giving him the ability to conjure immense blazes and destroy anything in his path. The Gladiator stood at a solid six feet tall, he wore a black suit and pants, with a scarred face and a head of white hair, despite him actually being quite young. He was a truly frightening man, who showed no mercy to anyone.
The Gladiator sat on a throne in the main chamber of his vessel with a man whimpering on the floor before him. The man begged for his life, “No please, I am so, so utterly sorry. You will have my undying loyalty if you let this go, please stop. Spare me! S-spare me, let me live!” The man stammered on, sniveling on the floor as he begged. The Gladiator grew impatient, “SHUT UP!” he roared. He approached the man and grabbed his face by his chin and spoke directly to the man, “I don’t accept failure, that package needed to get there. You have failed, you are worthless to me now. I have no use for you.” The Gladiator covered the man’s face with his hand, which grew hotter and hotter as his grip tightened. Soon a blaze erupted out of his hand and the man’s head was incinerated into ashes, the screaming died out as his headless body fell to the floor. Two men in suits rushed over and started to drag the body away. There was a knock at the door to the main chamber and a man with glasses who had a rather weak demeanor, donning a bland brown suit, walked in.
“What is it Genco?” The Gladiator asked. “It's Pantangellini” he said, nervously adding “He got life inside, a bounty hunter got ‘em’” The man of flame was concerned, “Well shit, there goes our best money launderer, we’ve gotta get a new casino” he continued “Genco, who was the bounty hunter that nailed him?” In a weak tone, Genco spoke to his boss, “We didn’t get a name, all Pantangellini said was that the man just told him he was a cowboy.” The Gladiator’s attention spiked, “What did you just say?!” He demanded. A bit frightened now, Genco spoke again “Um… He’s a cowboy sir, that’s all we know, is that alright? Did I do something wrong?” Genco was shaking now, and his stutter started acting up after seeing the burned up body laying on the floor. In a few words, he was fearful for his own life.
“Leave me, and deal with that corpse, you have two minutes.” “Y-yes sir!” Genco ran off dragging the body with the men, all while dry-heaving from the smell of burnt flesh. The Gladiator turned and looked out his window and contemplated what he had just discovered. “The bastard’s still alive! How?! There was no way he could’ve made it out all those years ago.” His mind was racing, The Northern Cowboy was still alive!
5
When the Cowboy arrived back on the ship he transferred Stripes his 10% cut of the job. Now you see, Stripes had no need for money; he wasn’t an actual person anymore. He was essentially an A.I. program at this point; the man was immortal now, his consciousness would live on forever. He was just in it for something to do, so a big cut wasn’t really needed for him. Stripes was a curious man and something had been on his mind for a while now, “Hey partner, what did ya see down in that cave the other day?” The Cowboy looked up from the gun he stole on Mars, which he was cleaning, and said simply, “I saw myself die. I died on my knees, burned and beaten. Right on Mercury Bridge, overlooking the sun.” Stripes was surprised, “No shit huh, were you old or what?” “Nope, in fact I looked the same as I am now” Stripes was worried for his partner, he knew the Cowboy would never run from death; he had no fear of it. His fearlessness wasn’t made of bravery, it was something darker.
The man you know as “The Cowboy” is a very peculiar man. He has no fear of anything, he has no cares in the world, he just lives. Day in and day out he is just living for the sake of living. He had a brush with death. He made a grave mistake one day, and ended up looking death in the face and it stole something from him, the ability to care had been stolen from the man. In his eyes, he lived by one belief; “Easy Come, Easy Go”. He is a man who is attached to nothing, he saw no point in getting attached to something if he was just going to die at the end and lose it all, just like it did that fateful day, the day that still haunts him when he sleeps; The day that will never leave him. He welcomes death, he just waits for it to come around the corner and claim him. He’s lost his ability to care, for it was snatched from him by death itself; and every night, he relives the encounter. A man sentenced to psychological torture daily, for as long as he lives, sort of a parting gift from death.
Stripes’ concern grew, he knew for a fact that the Cowboy wouldn’t avoid his own demise; he knew that the Cowboy would face it without a second thought. Stripes didn’t want to lose his brother in arms, “Hey kid, you might wanna avoid Mercury Bridge then eh?” The Cowboy holsters the pistol he stole from the Mob Boss on Mars and spoke, “Meh, I don’t really care, we’ll see what happens I guess”. Stripes, a once strong man, also had no purpose now. He was simply a spirit destined to float through the cosmos for eternity; for his consciousness was immortal, he would always be alive. Now, the thing he valued most, were his comrades. The Cowboy was like a kid brother to him, the only thing tethering him to reality was his only friend.
6
On the other side of the solar system approaching the asteroid belt, was a fleet the size 200 or so starships. The Syndicate Of The Blue Moon was heading straight for Mars. The Gladiator was looking for someone to answer for his missing money launderer and he was bringing his entire fleet. Pantangellini was a huge part of the money the Gladiator had, he made it clean to use by running it through his casino. It was virtually untraceable by the government; and now it was gone. Taken by some bounty hunter looking for a paycheck.
Now the important thing to remember is that this time period is just as lawless as it is advanced. The solar system may have had government and society, but the underworld of crime was just as large. The two worlds only meet when it comes to one thing, Bounties. The government sometimes wants a certain person and doesn’t want to waste police manpower; with a whole solar system to cover, they need all the help they can get. So the government enlists the help of people looking to make a quick buck. There are two types of bounties, an open contract: where anyone can go and get the target; or a private contract: where a specific person/group gets a contract exclusive to them. The Pantangellini contract was a private one; since Stripes was well known from his days as a hero and from his incredible skill, he gets clearance for high profile/dangerous people the cops want. Therefore, him getting a contract for someone like the casino owning/money launderer wasn’t out of the ordinary; but the fact that he got the Gladiator’s money launderer was some insane coincidence and bad luck for the crime boss.
One thing to mention was that the Gladiator was absolutely livid. He despised bounty hunters in general and the fact that one had gotten one of his most useful assets drove him crazy; on top of that, the man who stole it from him was the person he hated most. The hate was spawned for a reason only known between the two men, and the Gladiator had thought he’d gotten his revenge on the Cowboy and finished him off years ago. However, as both you and I know, the Cowboy is very much alive.
“GENCO!” The man turned a pale shade of grey, “Y-y-yes sir?” Genco stammered in response to the Gladiator. “Find a ship called the Star Horse! I WANT IT FOUND! Spend as much as you need, just get me that ship!” The Gladiator finished his yelling fit towards his assistant and sat down on his throne with a look of death on his face; for he was out for blood and he was going to get it.
7
“Well shit, ain’t that a sight huh Stripes?” The Cowboy asked. “Ha, it sure has been a while. What’s it been, five years?” His partner responded. The Star Horse was orbiting the once blue and green planet of Earth. The War had destroyed pretty much all wildlife on the planet, all the forests had cities and skyscrapers built out of the ashes of a once prospering planet. So naturally, the planet had been turned into a blue and grey coloured rock orbiting the sun. Even if it wasn’t the prettiest sight ever, it was their home.
The Cowboy perked up and spoke, “Woah, hey easy Stripes, you haven’t gotten clearance to land yet” Stripes was distracted and seemed distant, even for a non-physical being. “Ah shit my bad, calling in now.” Stripes sent out his ID and got a spot on a landing strip near the coast of the Atlantic Ocean. Stripes was having himself some bittersweet nostalgia, the last time he was here on Earth, he lost so much to him. That’s right, the battle when Stripes was confined to his ship forever, were his last moments on Earth. The same went for The Cowboy, he hadn’t returned to the planet since that fateful day either.
The duo had returned to Earth to grab a quick bounty and then get out. To The Cowboy, the faster he could leave, the better. This was mainly because the whole solar system thought he was a dead man who died in the final battle on Earth, who died a hero (they made a plaque for him and everything). It was perfect for him, he hated the whole hero gig; he liked to operate freely and do things he wanted, whenever he wanted. So naturally, the hero committee that was formed put restrictions on how you could act and he hated it; so he never was a huge hero of the people, no one really knew him, he was just a guy who could fight really damn well and he happened to do it for good. So as The Cowboy walked into the setting sun to grab his bounty under the cover of nightfall, he remembered the simpler days…
8
2263, Earth, Five Years Prior To Present Day
Gunfire rained down from above, the varying volume of bombs crashing down indicated their distance from them, screams of the souls lost from the war echoed in the distance. There these two men stood, bullets whizzing around them and above their heads as they stood in their trench. The two men went by names familiar to us both, The Northern Cowboy and The Midnight Gladiator. “They say hell makes two men brothers through the despair they share” said the Gladiator to his comrade. “I guess it does but we were brothers before we got into the fight” The Cowboy responded. The two men were polar opposites, The Gladiator was a fierce warrior who lusted for bloodshed and power; meanwhile, his brother The Cowboy was a cool and collected man who didn’t care much for the war they were fighting. But they were brothers nonetheless; now you see, they weren’t brothers by blood, but by situation.
12 Years ago when the war between humanity began, both men were mere children who had lost their families in the crossfires of the war. At just 11 years old, The Cowboy and The Gladiator were neighbours in what used to be Canada until the bombs fell. Their entire neighbourhood was destroyed and many died. Bombs rained down from above and turned their city to rubble. The Cowboy crawled out of the ruins of his house and searched for survivors, for someone to help him. Who he found was his neighbour, a boy the same age as him badly burned. His hair had turned a silverish white and he was barely clinging to life. The Cowboy nursed him back to health and they spent their days training, learning to fight and to use the abilities their bodies had somehow evolved into achieving. Their bodies had evolved past a normal human’s abilities in order to survive. One day, they made a vow to one another, it was the idea of human identity that had started the war and they decided to contradict the entire concept. They decided to never use the names given to them by the world, for it was an identity uncertainty that brought the war upon humanity; and on that day two men were born. The Northern Cowboy and The Midnight Gladiator were brought into existence and they were going to stop the war that took so much from them.
Back to the battle, The two men waited for a pause in the gunfire. When the bullet rain stopped they leapt out onto the battlefield and unleashed hell onto the armies; the Cowboy was a blur in the fight, he cast massive blue bolts of lightning towards the enemy and with each blast he made massive craters and sent men flying. The Gladiator conjured a tsunami of flames and sent it towards the army behind them. Within minutes the armies had stood down and retreated, The Cowboy spoke to his brother, “I'm gonna go get a ship, I’ll be back in a bit” “Alright get back fast though, I don’t wanna be stranded here with my pants down” his brother responded.
The Cowboy finally found a ship, a black two man fighter with a hand painted white stripe on it from the nose to the tail. He hopped in and flew back towards his comrade. However, what he saw was a terrible sight indeed. Both armies had returned with reinforcements and were unloading all they had onto his brother and he was just barely holding his own. He was dying in a blaze of glory, tornadoes of fire and beams of flame were shooting all throughout the battlefield, he was shouting and giving it his all, killing by the hundreds. The Cowboy knew that his brother would be a dead man and there was nothing he could do; he turned his ship around to leave with a heavy heart when the Gladiator spotted him in the sky about to leave. “DON’T GO! NO PLEASE! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE TO DIE! COWBOY! COME BACK!” The Gladiator roared and begged but the Cowboy knew better; with great sorrow in his heart he left his brother there on the battlefield for there was nothing he could hope to accomplish. The feeling in the Gladiator’s heart of betrayal turned to rage as he roared and screamed “YOU BETRAYED ME! HOW DARE YOU, WE ARE BROTHERS! DIE, YOU UNFAITHFUL BASTARD!” He turned towards the Cowboy’s vessel and unleashed a blaze so incredible it incinerated the battlefield for miles and he shot it right into the sky at his brother’s ship. The ship was engulfed in a pillar of flame; and as it plummeted towards the ground, The Cowboy caught a glimpse of his brother lying on the ground, in the charred dirt exhausted of all power and with many bullet wounds all over. The ship slammed into the earth and was somehow still intact.
A few hours later, the Cowboy was sitting in the wreckage of his ship when a star cruiser flew over head and landed nearby. Out of the ships loudspeaker a voice shouted, “Hey you’re the Cowboy right?” “Yeah who’s this?” the Cowboy shouted back. The voice spoke once again “It's Stripes, the hero from the States. Looks like you wanna get off this rock, hop in kid”.
9
Present Day
The Cowboy reboarded his vessel and Stripes took off, leaving their old home behind once again. “Hey that guy sure was a runner huh kid?” Stripes struck up a conversation, “Yeah, I’ve never seen a bounty run so damn fast in my life. He really did NOT want to go to jail, he must of pissed off someone inside” The Cowboy said back. “Ha! Yeah, better keep a strong hold on the soap pal” The two shared a good laugh as comrades one last time. The Cowboy knew the end was near for him and Stripes had probably figured so too. The visions had never been wrong, Futurado Gorge was a mystical place and somehow always seemed to predict correctly. The two men shared great comradery but even still, there was a melancholy feeling hanging in the air.
An urgent message flashed across the ship’s display, a message from the Solar Police Force.
It read, “ATTENTION! THIS VESSEL IS THE NEAREST REGISTERED HERO SHIP IN THE VICINITY OF THE INCIDENT, THE SYNDICATE OF THE BLUE MOON ARE LOOKING FOR A CERTAIN BOUNTY HUNTER AND ARE KILLING POLICE AND CITIZENS UNTIL THE GOVERNMENT GIVES THEM INFORMATION ON THE CONTRACT THAT THEY FOLLOWED, PLEASE RESPOND TO THE SITUATION AND ACT AS REINFORCEMENTS.”
“Stripes where is the location on that message?” The Cowboy asked, “Mercury Bridge” his partner replied. “Open the hanger, Stripes”
10
“You can’t be serious! You know what will happen Cowboy, Don't even think about it!” Stripes shouted at his partner. “Look man, someone’s gotta do something and I’ve got something to atone for. I’ve gotta be a hero one last time.” Stripes was upset but he knew there was no stopping his partner. Whatever happened on Earth that day was eating away at the Cowboy, he simply couldn’t take it anymore he had to make up for it or die trying and that was exactly what he was going to do. The Cowboy ran off to the hangar and hopped into his ship. The hangar doors opened and he sped off into the direction of Mercury.
The Cowboy was pondering to himself as he flew, “So this is probably the end huh? It’s okay, I’ve got to do this. I’ll do it for you brother, I’m sorry it had to end that way.” As he grew nearer to the planet, Stripes’ heart sank more and more; his partner would most certainly meet his demise. As skilled as the Cowboy was, he couldn’t take on the entire Syndicate. Not even in his prime, but he could certainly do some damage and help out. The Cowboy saw the gray planet grow closer and closer; he spotted the bridge floating in its orbit, connecting different parts of the planet to each other. He then spotted the masses of criminals and gangsters shooting civilians and police. He then decided to dive bomb his ship into the crowd of gangsters and do some real damage. He dove out and used the slower gravity to land slowly onto the bridge, his ship gained speed and crashed into the crowd with a massive explosion. The Cowboy leapt into action holding nothing back, he was firing his pistol into men and electrocuting others; he shot about 20 thugs and dropped the gun, then continued to fight with his bare hands and ability, taking fire from all sides he was still able to fight back. He was dodging and weaving in and out of the path of fire, landing punches and kicks covered in lightning on anyone in his way; his power surged through him, every move he made was as fast as lightning and as powerful as a thunderstorm. He slowed down for a minute to breathe when a bullet caught him in the back, “Arghh!” he groaned in pain, and stumbled but he kept on fighting regardless.
Stripes watched on in awe and horror, his partner was an amazing sight. The Cowboy let the power flow through him and he had an aura of lightning covering every inch of him, he battled his way through a crowd of criminals and finally broke out of the pack of gangsters. What was waiting for him was something he’d never expect as long as he’d live. The Cowboy collapsed to his knees and looked up, standing before him was his brother. The Midnight Gladiator was waiting for him; he looked different from the last time the Cowboy saw him, his face was burned and scarred, he had the look of an animal in his eyes. “Pathetic, just pathetic, brother. You’re simply a beast who’s lost his fangs” The Gladiator motioned for his men to stand down and continued to speak. “I got off that fucking rock and built an empire, you went and caught small fry bounties, you don’t even compare. If you’re gonna leave me for dead, at least do something with your life.”
The Cowboy was shattered. Not only was his brother trying to kill him, he became the very thing they swore against; he had become a tyrant, a warlord, a monster. He spoke to his long lost brother, “I didn’t want to leave you there, I just couldn’t do anything. You would’ve done the same” “NO! I WOULDN'T'VE! I WOULD HAVE DIED TRYING!” The Gladiator roared at his brother. The Cowboy had a realization in that moment, it was the realization that his brother always had a dark side; he was brutal, lethal and lusted for blood. Not unlike the way he fought in the war but the only difference now was that it had consumed him completely. The Gladiator’s hand erupted with flame and he swung down on The Cowboy to finish the job. The Cowboy looked up at his brother, the whole moment was seemingly slowed down in time, he reacted. The hero leapt back and got to his feet and countered, just as his brother hit the ground, shattering the asphalt. The Cowboy landed a flying kick directly into his face. The Gladiator was sent sprawling out to the ground and then got back to his feet angrier than ever. He unleashed a wave of flame towards his brother and The Cowboy sent a bolt of lightning right back at him, the attacks clashed mid-air and made an incredible shock wave all throughout the bridge. “Done with the warm up?” The Cowboy taunted, “Yeah let’s get serious” the Gladiator growled back at him. Both men were engulfed in their respective power, The Gladiator was now wearing an intimidating coating of flame and The Cowboy had a magnificent aura of lightning. The two men leapt at each other, clashing fists and kicks; with every blow, held the power of an earthquake, flames and electricity were shooting off of every bit of contact with the two.
They stumbled back after a few minutes of continuous fighting, they both took a breather and prepared to go at it once again. The two were equals, yet polar opposites. All the men surrounding them were in awe and dared not get involved; their leader was showing power of which they’d never seen and this complete stranger to them was not only keeping up, but holding his own.
The two charged once again and met in the middle of Mercury Bridge, The Gladiator reared back onto one foot and brought his other leg down in a heel kick from above onto The Cowboy. The Cowboy raised his arms to block the attack and the force of it drove him right into the ground, right through the pavement. The biodome surrounding Mercury and it's bridge to make it habitable was shaking; every single man on the bridge, even the most seasoned gangster was fearful for their lives. The Cowboy leapt out of the shattered asphalt and landed a fierce upper cut on his brother which sent him flying into the air and then he too, hit the ground damn hard. The Gladiator unleashed everything he had in him, every ounce of power, every drop of energy he had was now barreling towards The Cowboy. Our Hero didn’t dodge, he stood still facing his brother barreling towards him. He allowed his brother’s flame covered fist to pierce right through his stomach. He didn’t even flinch, his lightning aura disappeared and his brother’s flames fizzled out. “I'm sorry brother.” The Cowboy whispered to his opponent. The Cowboy put his hand right over the Gladiator’s heart and said “Come with me.” He used the last power he had left in his wounded body and sent a shock right into the Gladiator’s heart, stopping it entirely. The Gladiator’s eyes widened and then closed. He whispered to the Cowboy with a smile as he died, “Oh good, you’ve got your fangs back…” then slumped over backwards as the last of his life drained out of him. The Cowboy fell to his knees and called back to the Star Horse, “Stripes, I’m a dead man. There’s nothing you could’ve done for me, don’t fret my friend. I left you something..” he continued, “Use the cameras and look in the weapon storage in the hangar.” Stripes tuned the cameras to the hangar and he saw a tank full of liquid with a body in it. “What is it?” Stripes asked confused. “It’s a replica of your old body, powers and all. I had it made the night after I saw the vision of my death, I spent all my bounty money and savings on it for ya.” The Cowboy kept talking, “All you need to do is activate the control panel remotely, and turn on the A.I. transfer to the body.” The Cowboy’s last message was a simple one, “I’m gonna go to sleep now, Stripes. Easy Come, Easy Go, Mijo” Stripes was now in his new body and stepped out of the tank. A tear rolled down his face as he radioed back to his partner, “See you, Cowboy”.
The Cowboy leaned back and looked out of the side of the bridge, the sun was in plain view as he died. He stared at the ball of beautiful, burning gasses. As the light faded away from him, he spoke his last breath, “Hell makes brothers of us all…”
Afterword
Hi There Dear Reader! My name’s Tim Agar and I hoped you enjoyed coming with me on this incredible journey of mine. My inspirations for this story came partly from Cowboy Bebop and from movies like Platoon and The Good, Bad and The Ugly, I have always loved westerns and sci-fi and it was a blast to combine them and pay homage to the great pieces of fiction that have inspired me. My experience writing this was one of the best of my life and I appreciate any attention this tale gets. Thank you for sticking around to the end and I bid you farewell.
Easy Come, Easy Go...
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