The morning of Bacon Finnegan’s fifteenth birthday started the same as every other day. His philosophy lessons were sandwiched between schematics and literature. Next, old world studies included fencing, sparring, and martial arts. Bacon looked forward to old world studies—they were the only subjects that challenged him.
Bacon sat on his cot and watched his Companion Learning System Android, IQ32 step from the opening between the stacked cargo pods and walk towards him.
“Happy Birthday, Bacon—another year older, another year wiser!” IQ32 said as he jerked his head to the side.
“Oh . . . yeah?” said Bacon. He stood up and put his hands on his hips. “What’s there to be happy about?”
“I don’t know, I don’t get happy—I’m just programmed to say that on your birthday.”
“Right . . . thanks.”
“Do you want to fence today?” IQ32 asked.
“No, I’d rather spar with the short swords.”
IQ32 twitched his head again. “All right, let’s do it—stop, look, and listen.”
Bacon fetched two swords from the holder near his desk. He met the android in the sparring area marked by the stacked cargo pods, and handed one of the weapons to IQ32.
Stepping back, Bacon eyed his opponent. The android stood a good foot and a half taller than Bacon and was at least ten times stronger. He wore a one-piece grey bodysuit that blended into the surrounding stacks of carbon fiber cargo pods, which made him look larger and more menacing than he really was.
Staring at his face, Bacon focused on the whitish-gray synthetic skin that stretched over the android’s mechanical body. IQ32’s head and hands contrasted against the dark background, and that made it easier for Bacon to spot him during maneuvers.
Bacon turned sideways, steadied the blade in front of him, breathed deeply, and relaxed his muscles as he mentally prepared for the fight. He visualized himself knocking the sword out of the android’s hand. However, Bacon’s mind kept going back to every outcome of past lessons. In his ten years sword fighting, Bacon had never won against IQ32. He was determined to change that today.
Seconds later, they sprang towards each other and engaged swords. With great skill and precision, Bacon used every move he knew to parry the android’s attacks and dodge his thrusts.
Below his blondish-white, spiky hair, sweat beaded on Bacon’s brow. The perspiration on his back caused his crimson, long-sleeved shirt to stick to his skin. Already tiring, Bacon tried as hard as he could to remove IQ32’s sword. He hit the android with every move he knew, but he could not get the right positioning.
“Is that that all you have—a monkey for a penny?” IQ32 said, effortlessly fending off his attacks.
“No,” Bacon replied between breaths. “I have more!” He turned with the android, the tips of their swords locked together as they circled and measured each other.
“Show me what you’ve got—lives in la-la-land!”
Bacon stepped back just as IQ32 struck his blade low and inside. The strong reverberation traveled through Bacon’s hand, up his arm, and into his shoulder. He dropped his sword and his body instantly tensed up as one of his mysterious, shaking episodes overcame him. Bacon fell to the ground and writhed around on the metal floor. His arms and legs flailed as his eyes rolled back, and his head repeatedly jerked sideways. After a few seconds the shaking stopped and Bacon lay there limp as a Sodonian slug. He came out of the seizure to hear IQ32 talking to him and touching his shoulder.
“Bacon—I say—Bacon, are you all right?” IQ32 asked.
Bacon shook off the brief episode, grabbed his sword and stood up. “Er . . . yeah . . . I think so.” He rubbed the knot on the back of his head.
“Do you want to quit?”
With that question, Bacon’s frustration mounted. “No—I’m not a quitter.” He spoke with a devoted determination to beat the android. He wasn’t going to let a small moment of shaking prevent him from doing so.
Bacon stepped forward and struck like a coiled snake. He slapped IQ32’s sword, hitting the blade high and outside. He attacked with a series of relentless combinations and thrusts, but nothing worked. It wasn’t until he moved from attacker to defender, that Bacon had his revelation. The combination IQ32 threw at him was very familiar. Over the years of sparring with the android, Bacon had memorized his every offensive and defensive move. He had defended the same combination months before.
In spite of the android’s nanotechnology, circuitry and advanced computations, IQ32 was predictable. Bacon figured out what attack was coming next. IQ32 would come from his left, slap his sword twice then thrust. Bacon prepared and slid the tip of his sword down just as IQ32 made his move. The android’s blade slashed at nothing but air. Bacon twirled his tip around and up and launched the android’s sword into the air.
Bacon stood in disbelief as the sword flew overhead and landed with a loud clink on the metal floor of the cargo hold, sliding across to the base of a pod. Bacon lunged into the air and pumped his fist violently, still holding the sword.
“YES—YES—YES—YES!” Bacon shouted, as he wildly leaped around his table. He savored the moment he became a “true swordsman” and reveled in the triumph. Ten long years he had wanted to do that . . . and now he had.
“Bacon!” a voice shouted from his right.
Bacon stopped in his tracks near his cot. His father, the Cargo Master John Finnegan stood between two cargo pods. His hulking form filled the space. Every muscle in Bacon’s body tensed.
“Bacon, let’s go!” John barked. His sharp words bounded off the metal rafters. “The Ruby is coming to port, and we have to unload her. That’s more important than your foolish sword fighting. Get a move on!” John kicked the sword, sliding it towards IQ32.
As usual, John’s words stung him. All that was good turned to poison. With sulking shoulders and sad eyes, Bacon watched John turn away and disappear around the corner.
Bacon shuffled toward his wardrobe. He strapped on his utility belt as IQ32 put the swords back in their place on the wall. Choking back the mixture of emotion, Bacon kicked the door of the wardrobe shut. The corner of the steel door caught the middle of his shin hard. The intense pain almost sent him to his knees.
“Blorking door!” he said. He rubbed the sting away.
He grabbed his scanner from his desk and limped across the makeshift room, through the maze of pods and machinery, and met John in the docking chamber.
“What took you so long?” John asked, as the door of the chamber slid shut.
“Nuttin.”
“Well, don’t let nuttin hold you up next time! I’m sick of your dawdling.”
Why does it have to be a horrible day when it should be special? An afternoon spent unloading supplies, wasn’t what he had in mind. He’d wanted to explore the ship, read a digital book, or skim one of his historical files on his TNAv.
The thin, Plixiglas, hand-held supercomputer saved him from his solitary, cargo hold life. On the TNAv’s memory chip, the size of a grain of sand, he had thousands of downloaded files from classics like Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer, Peter Pan, and Harry Potter to some of Bacon’s favorite modern stores like The Adventures of Cyborg Qureets, The Land of the Lost Lartians, and the Space Treasures of Phantasm 7.
A few days ago, he had spent the few credits he had to download his favorite comic coretile, Interstellar Quest from the Starship Ruby Darton’s computer. Interstellar Quest was the longest running comic coretile of all time. There were over twelve thousand to date. Kids of all generations across the galaxies read and followed them religiously—awaiting the arrival of the next upload. Volume 12,186 had Captain Drumbolt on the planet Molto. The Magma Men captured him and they were trying to turn him into one of them.
When they stepped into the cargo docks, Bacon changed the subject. “What ship are we loading today?”
“It’s a supply ship from the penal planet Grondoon,” John huffed.
“What’s the name of the prison there?”
“P347–Zartacla,” answered his father. “It’s maximum security.”
“Oh.” Bacon liked to hear the different names of the penal prisons.
“Ok, time’s a wasting,” John said. He punched in a code on the wall pad. The massive door to the cargo hold opened revealing rows of stacked United Intergalactic Federation cargo pods. “Get busy. You have to load 2000 units today.” His father pointed to the stacks on his left, then to the small supply ship docked in the landing bay. “Check your manifest, do a cargo sweep, and I’ll be back to check it when you’re done.”
Bacon watched John walk in front of the small ship and disappear through the doorway then took out the thermoplastic TNAv microprocessor out of the holster on his utility belt. He scanned the pods, matched them to the manifest, and activated the antigravity lifters. When he was done, Bacon climbed into the cockpit of the Hortog. The top half of the electric machine was a giant robot with arms. The bottom half was designed with triangular tank tracks that allowed him to move in any direction, while giving him the stability to tow the cargo.
In the miniature cockpit, Bacon put on the Virtual Reality helmet and slid his thumb over the print scanner that initiated the electric motor, and released the machine from its clamps on the wall. An initial rundown of the schematics of the machine confirmed power levels and balancers were in order. Next, he slid his hands into the VR gloves, moved his hands up and down and in an arching pattern and watched the arms of the unit follow the exact movements of the gloves. Satisfied, Bacon tilted his head forward and the machine sprung into action.
With the slight movement of the VR helmet, Bacon directed the Hortog towards the first set of pods. He grabbed the floating stack with the robotic arms, backed it out of the cargo hold crossed the concrete dock, guided it up the ramp into the supply ship’s hull, released the cases and returned for another load.
It took over five hours to move and process 2000 units. Bacon returned the Hortog to the cargo hold, parked it in place, turned off the machine, and removed the VR gloves and helmet. As the clamps from the wall extended and secured the Hortog in place, the exterior door to the docking bay opened. A small ship flew through the force field, hovered next to the Grondon supply vessel, then landed and powered down.
On the far wall, John stepped through the doorway and shouted across the dock, “Bacon, get over here and secure this vessel.”
Bacon hopped out of the cockpit and double-timed it over to the smaller ship. The exterior was rough, scarred from what looked like hundreds of plasma bursts. There were several larger, charred, scars from what looked like encounters with small asteroids.
What is this ship doing here? There isn’t another ship on the docking schedule.
Bacon crouched, grabbed the electrical umbilical from the power port, and connected it to the ship. The external door to the ship slid open and a massive, burly man stepped onto the dock. His thick-soled, black leather boots thundered down onto the concrete. Bacon gazed at the Space Pirate towering over him. The pirate wore an oil-stained, red velvet coat that hung down past his waist, covering his sturdy canvas trousers. A velvet black, tricorn hat, adorned with a flamboyant bird’s feather stuck out over his forehead, shadowing his scraggly mono-brow and his sunken eyes. His tangled, black hair flowed nonstop into a mangy, braided beard that hung past the middle of his chest and covered the red sash he wore over his shoulder. The hilt of a dagger peeked over the top of his belt. By the looks of the brute, Bacon suspected the pirate had a small plasma pistol hidden in the sash.
Droogs. Space Pirates. Miners. Smugglers. Some of them had even taken up the old-fashioned name of Buccaneers. Whatever you called them, they were not good, and trouble always followed.
Bacon stood up and looked into the figure’s lifeless, brown eyes. The man looked as if he had just stepped off the Jolly Roger.
The only thing missing is a skull and crossbones flag, a beach, and a treasure chest.
The Droog, who was at least a foot taller than Bacon and twice as big, hunched over so until they were eye to eye. “What’r you looking at, boy?” Spittle sprayed from his mouth, hitting Bacon in the face. Through his beard and mustache, the pirate blew the foul stench of fermented apples, onions, and rotten meat with every word.
“Er, nuttin,” said Bacon, trying not to vomit.
“Didn’t your father tell you, it ain’t polite to stare?”
“Didn’t your father tell you . . . don’t spray it, when you say it?” Bacon said wiping his face with his sleeve.
Just then, John walked up. “Dampier, it’s been a while. What brings you to this part of the galaxy?”
The Droog stared at Bacon another moment, then turned and grabbed forearms with John. “I’m here to get supplies. You are a supply ship—right?” They pounded their chests in unison, as some kind of greeting. “By the way, you need to train your dog there, not to stare. I’d be happy to teach it a lesson for ya.”
John and the man laughed.
“Maybe later . . . it might do him good. Let’s get down to business first.” John looked back at Bacon disapprovingly, then placed an arm around the pirate’s shoulders. “I have rooms ready for you and your men. You can wash up, and then we can pick up where we left off last time—if you know what I mean.”
“Good,” Dampier said and walked off with John.
Four more Space Pirates, dressed in similar fashion with black coats, canvas trousers, chunky boots, and mangy hair stepped off the ship. Bacon made a sour face as they neared, and he held his breath. They smelled as if they hadn’t showered in months. As they exited the ship, they each spit on Bacon’s boots before they, followed their captain. Bacon stared at the Space Pirates and John with contempt. What he wouldn’t give to teach them a lesson or two.
Finally, the last two stepped onto the dock. They carried a large chest between them. Bacon imagined what was inside. Electronics. Treasure. Jewels. Weapons.
When they disappeared through the doorway, Bacon returned to his room in the corner of the cargo hold, grabbed a rag off his desk, and wiped the brown spittle off his boots. The foul globs, had already started to dry and left stains on the black leather.
After he flung the rag into the corner, he headed threw open the door of his wardrobe to pack. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to get away. Still angered by his father, Dampier, and the Droogs, Bacon slammed his cargo bag on the floor. He crammed his crimson shirts and pants into the bottom of the bag, then reached up to the top shelf and grabbed a handful of socks and boxer shorts.
Bacon stopped for a moment and stared at his reflection in the glass mirror that was attached to the inside door of the wardrobe. His eyes had changed colors again. It happened every two weeks or so. Last time they were brown. Now they were bright blue. He also noticed that his hair had a slight silver sheen. Two years ago, his hair was brown. It began turning, changing each day, until it became this blondish-white he saw now.
He looked away. Wit a yank on the strapBacon grabbed the strap Bacon pulled the cargo bag toward his desk where he kept several small pouches of V-rations, supplement bars, and bottled water. He stuffed these supplies in the zipper pockets.
Sliding the drawer shut, Bacon reached toward the overhead compartment of the desk and punched his secret code into the keypad on the face of the door. The door unlatched and swung out and up on the hinge attached to the top edge. Inside, Bacon had his stash of electronic and digital gadgets that he masterfully constructed or accumulated over the years. There were over a hundred different electric machines, scanners, electric knifes, tools, and handheld devices.
First he grabbed several empty pouches and attached them to his utility belt so he could carry objects at maximum capacity. Rummaging around in the storage space, he located a small box, placed it on the surface of the desk, and removed six small two-inch tall, semi-metallic capsules, his homemade Chinese fireworks.
These might come in handy.
Bacon shrugged and shoved the capsules in the nearest pouch on the belt and sealed the top. He took the box and dumped the rest of the items into his cargo bag.
He grabbed six hand-held electronic devices as well as a grappling hook and grappling gun, and a cartridge of five hundred feet of lightweight monofilament. After stuffing them inside the bad, he rifled through the assortment of junk. A stun gun, three plasma guns, four antigravity pods, a pair of electric gloves, and one long tool case went into the bag next.
I don’t know why I’m taking all of this stuff, but it might come in handy.
In all of the Interstellar Quest coretiles, Captain Drumbolt used many gadgets like the ones Bacon built and collected.
As Bacon loaded the arsenal of technology into his bag, IQ32 stepped into the room with a tray of food.
“What—I say—what are you doing?” IQ32 inquired, placing the tray on the table.
“What does it look like?” Bacon said, adding one pair of night vision glasses that doubled as binoculars to the mix. “I’m packing.”
“Packing for what—downhill skiing in Iowa?”
“I have to get off this ship.”
“How are you going to do that—Rome was not built in one day?”
“I don’t know . . . I just need to get off the ship!”
“Remember what happened last time you tried to run away? You planned the escape for a month and it all went bad—evolved from a toxic waste dump.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
He thought about his attempted escape on Sagevsal Prime. He had gathered data from the ship’s computer, timed it all out and executed his plan perfectly.
“And what—I say—and what happened?”
“I was caught. This time I’ll be prepared—I will think of everything.”
“Just plan—I say—just plan for the unexpected.”
“This time I will get off of this ship, for good . . . I will . . . I will!”
The wheels in Bacon’s mind turned; the garbage chute . . . the escape pod . . . the captain’s cruiser. The ideas came but none of them were any good. Visions of the Space Pirates flashed in his head, and lastly the metallic treasure chest. Bacon knew what he had to do.
