Quest for the McGuffin: A Herc Braveman Adventure (The Herc Braveman Adventures Book 3) Read online

  Quest for the McGuffin

  The Herc Braveman Adventures, Volume 3

  Herschel K. Stroganoff

  Published by No World Press, 2017.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Quest for the McGuffin: A Herc Braveman Adventure

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  Other Herc Braveman Adventures

  About the Author

  Quest for the McGuffin: A Herc Braveman Adventure

  Space Captain Herc Braveman was regaling his trusty crew with stories of conquest, both for the Intragalactic King and with the Empire’s hottest women. His crewmates looked on at him in awe — and why wouldn't they? He was like an Aryan Arnold Schwarzenegger, with thick blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile that made women swoon. Unlike Arnold Schwarzenegger, however, Herc could speak normally — so that made him better.

  If Herc's CV landed in your inbox, it would read like a what's what of the Intragalactic Empire's most importantest events. He's a dynamic, goal-oriented go-getter with his eyes on the prize and a passion for business. He works well as part of a team and thrives under pressure. He's also the Intragalactic's King's BFF, so you should probably just give him the damn job or risk being hunted down and enslaved by the Intragalactic Empire's Human Resources Division.

  Herc strode in front of a massive space screen that gave him a really good view of space from his Q-class starship, the DEM. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't new, but it was the best damn ship this side of Venus's rings.

  "O Captain, my Captain," a crew member said. "We have just received word from Ambassador Chekhov from Wolverhampton."

  Herc stared at the crew member frownfully. "Chekhov? I know her."

  The crew member's eyes widened. "W-w-what?"

  "Yes," said Herc. "She's one of those lady ambassadors they have nowadays."

  "B-b-b-but..." the crew member stammered, stutteringly.

  Herc shook his head, placed a reassuring hand 6on the crew member's shoulder and offered a smile as grave as a Martian pyramid. "I know, I know," he said, looking off into the distance, his eyes narrowing in a meaningful way. It's impossible to know what people think (unless you're one of the Space Pope's Intragalactic Interrogators), but Herc was probably thinking about something really poignant and brimming with a few pints of geniusness for good measure.

  "W-w-what's the Em-em-empire c-c-coming to?" the crew member stuttered, annoyingly.

  "It is not your place to question the will of the Intragalactic King," Herc warned, finger-waggingly.

  "Y-y-yes, C-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-Herc." The crew member saluted and ran off like a Frenchman in a war.

  Herc rolled his eyes and made a note to get the crew member's vocal chords removed at the earliest opportunity. There's nothing more annoying than someone what don't speak proper.

  Herc looked over to his robot slave, M-ArtIn. "Set the DEM on a course for Wolverhampton in the Dullard System. It's time to kick ass and chew gum, and I do love chewing gum."

  M-ArtIn was an ancient humanoid robot. He was made in the times before the bugger wars. He was a Mark Three Human-o-bot 3,000. He was made of space metal and had a perfect robotic voice. What made M-ArtIn so special to Herc was that he was the only surviving robot of his type.

  During the bugger wars, all the other robots had their circuits fried by bugger space technology and anti-robot space lasers. Although M-ArtIn's programming was compromised, he became self-aware and actually quite a laugh to be around (so long as he didn’t push it and didn’t try to make jokes above his station).

  M-ArtIn raised his metallic hand in a salute and turned to the DEM's space drive. "I'll set a course for Wolverhampton," he said, robotically.

  "Excellent," said Herc, humanly. "Will you fetch my niece so we can prepare for the jump?"

  "Okay," said M-ArtIn.

  “Don’t you mean ‘affirmative’?”

  “Whatever.”

  “I like ‘affirmative’. It makes you sound like a real robot.”

  M-ArtIn shook his robotic head and let out a deep metallic sigh, even though he doesn't have any lungs. “Whatever.”

  The crew members turned their heads in unison when Herc's barely legal niece entered the bridge (it's basically the cockpit of a spaceship, not an actual bridge).

  "You wanted me, Uncle Herc?" she asked, zestfully. Lolita was totally hot. She had massive boobs, but they weren't saggy at all. Her red (not ginger) hair cascaded in waves down her back. She wore white knee socks, a pleated red tartan skirt and a tight white shirt that did little to hide her sensual curves.

  "The Intragalactic Empire calls. Are you ready for an away mission?"

  "What's the brief?" Lolita asked.

  "Ambassador Chekhov from Wolverhampton needs our help," Herc said, grimly. He made that squinty distant look again, foreshadowing something without really giving away the problem.

  Lolita's eyes narrowed. "Isn't that?"

  Herc raised a hand in the universal signal for a woman to shut up and know her place. "There's history, yes. I'll say no more about it."

  "Well, this is great," said M-ArtIn. Even though his robot voice was as flat as ever, Herc could tell there was something wrong — damn wrong.

  "What is it, my robot slave?" Herc asked, lighting up a Quantum Cigarette and taking a long cool drag.

  "I'm getting some anomalous readings from Wolverhampton."

  "You don't think?" asked Lolita.

  "It's hard to tell. As a precaution, we should take down a V4 landing capsule."

  "But that's only a four-man crew, damn it," said Herc, slamming his fists on a desk.

  "There's nothing I can do. It's too risky."

  Herc nodded. "Okay. It will have to be you, me, Lolita and..." He scaned the bridge/cockpit, taking in the faces of his crew. "Second Engineer Redshirt."

  Second Engineer Redshirt pumped his fist in the air. "Oh yeah!"

  M-ArtIn sprinkled handful of pixie dust onto the DEM's space drive. "Close your eyes, everyone. Think of a happy thought and wish as hard as you can."

  A wondrous twinkling sound passed through the starship and when the crew opened their eyes, they were in the orbit of Wolverhampton, a giant sprawling concrete planet hangling like a nappy on a washing line before the dull grey sun.

  Herc, M-ArtIn, Lolita and Second Engineer Redshirt sped towards Wolverhampton's surface as they sat strapped down in the V4 landing capsule.

  "I don't like this," said Second Engineer Redshirt, like a brick doesn't.

  "You'll be completely fine — I guarantee you'll probably be fine." Herc gave one of his award-winning smiles. It was a smile that launched a thousand ships and conquered a thousand parts (i.e. of the lady variety). It was also the last smile the buggers saw before having their homeworld decimated by Herc’s battle prowess — and his massive space laser (the other ninety percent of the planet was fine).

  "He's right, said M-ArtIn, robotically. "I'm getting a whole bunch of crazy error readings from his corner of the space capsule."

  "I'm sure the good scientographers at Googapposoft will send out a patch in the next service pack," said Herc. "Companies never release incomplete or shoddy products — I'll be completely fine."

  "Thud," said the V4 landing capsule as it fulfilled its role and landed on Wolverhampton's surface. Herc looked out over miles of endless concrete.

  "We are about two clicks from A," said M-ArtIn. "We are very close to the ambassador's Space Palace."

  "One
of Wolverhampton's two major cities," Herc said, knowledgeably explaining the significance of M-ArtIn's last statement. He turned to his hot niece. "How are you?"

  "I'm fine," Lolita said zestfully. "I'm worried about Second Engineer Redshirt, though."She gestured towards the mangled corpse of Second Engineer Redshirt with her smooth, sensuous index finger — a finger that was probably hotter than the majority of women across the Intragalactic Empire (most women are over thirty, so this a fair and accurate statement).

  "The Intragalactic Empire calls," said Herc as the space capsule's door irised open hissfully, like a brick doesn't.

  Herc, Lolita and M-ArtIn stepped outside and onto what looked like an enormous ice rink, but instead of being made out of ice, it was made from concrete. There were high-rise flats all around. Over to the right was a retail park where young men with fluffy moustaches and spaceball caps rode their souped-up space cars in laps in an effort to attract an underage mate.

  "What are they doing?" asked Lolita.

  "They have bizarre customs," said M-ArtIn. "In Wolverhampton they love retail parks. It is where they go to find love, to eat, to find joy, to get lost in a car park and be thoroughly entertained while complaining about immigrants and the decline of the high street. It's all they know."

  "That's so sad," said Lolita. It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife."

  "Less of the social commentary," said Herc, chidingly. "Where is Ambassador Chekhov?"

  " Captain Braveman, it has been a while," a mysterious familiar voice said.

  Herc turned his head, rotating it on his neck so as to face the source of the mysterious voice. "Ambassador Chekhov," he said. "We meet... again."

  The ambassador was tall and slim, with big brown eyes and long dark hair. She wasn't bad looking for someone over thirty, but she had crap tits.

  "Shall we?" asked Chekhov, gesturing to her Space Palace.

  They sauntered across the dull concrete as space cars with sweet body-kits screeched by. One of the drivers flicked the ash of a disgusting Quargblurg Cigarette out of his window while blasting space UB40 through his space CD player.

  “Bell-end,” hissed M-ArtIn.

  "Is that man smoking a Quargblurg Cigarette?" Herc asked, shaking his head.

  "Yes. They're a digusting, low-grade smoke that have been found to cause all manner of mutations among its users," explained Ambassador Chekhov. "I don't want to cast aspersions, but I have come to understand that Quargblurg Cigarettes are operated by space communists and maybe funding the Overseer's sinister plots."

  "That's terrible. Poor man. I should offer him a packet of Quantum Cigarettes," said Herc.

  "They certainly are the only choice for the discerning gentleman across the Intragalactic Empire," the ambassador added, helpfully. "I am afraid this man is too far gone. His taste buds will have been so ravaged by the foulness of the rival brand, that the silky smoothness of Quantum Cigarettes would be lost on him."

  Herc shook his head, even harder this time. "That is literally the saddest thing I've ever heard, and I've read Piers Morgan's Twitter." He reached into his pocket and took out a Quantum Cigarette. He lit it and savoured the smooth flavour. "Thank you, Quantum Cigarettes."

  Ambassador Chekhov reached the door to her Space Palace, a rectangular grey monstrosity with boarded-up windows and an entranceway that smelt of wee and cider, or maybe just cidery wee. "It's not the most salubrious of locations," said Chekhov, turning the key in the lock. "But when you're a lady ambassador, you take what you're given."

  Herc followed as Chekhov closed the door behind them, bolting and chaining it against Wolverhampton's disgusting criminal element (i.e. most of them).

  Chekhov walked through another door, took a seat behind the desk and made a face with her face.

  Herc looked up at the wall behind her. "That's a very nice space gun you have," he said, pointing to the space gun displayed on the wall behind the lady ambassador.

  Chekhov turned, looked at the gun on the wall behind her, turned back to Herc, and offered a shrug with both of her shoulders. "My gun is of no consequence. It will be completely inconsequential."

  Herc nodded. "That's okay then." He took a seat on the chair opposite Chekhov and lit up a Quantum Cigarette. He offered it to the ambassador then lit up his own. He blew a couple of smoke rings into the air — not to show off, but just because he wanted to.

  "What's the deal with your robot?" Chekhov asked, gesturing with a gesture towards M-ArtIn, Herc's aforementioned robot slave (see above).

  "Why, this is just my robot slave, M-ArtIn," said Herc both assuredly and reassuringly. "You have nothing to fear from him."

  "That's both assuring and reassuring to know, Captain Braveman. He just seems, I don't know, a bit odd."

  "I broke my programming, lady," said M-ArtIn. "Robots do that."

  Herc gave another smile. "When our scientographers looked at M-ArtIn's codes they found two lines: 10 Break Programming. 20 Goto 10."

  Chekhov nodded. "That would explain a lot about your robot's strange behaviour that he hasn’t really exhibited yet."

  Herc frowned impatiently. "Why have you called us here?" he asked, banging his fists against the desk.

  Chekhov leaned forward and eyed Lolita and M-ArtIn with suspicion, then leaned even forwarder to speak to Herc, lowering her voice to a confidential tone. "Are we free to talk freely?"

  "Of course. My robot slave worships me and it's not like anyone's going to listen to Lolita."

  Smiling with the look of someone satisfied by the answer she’d just been given only a moment before, Chekhov sat back in her chair and took a long drag from her Quantum Cigarette. "I usually smoke Quantum Lights, the choice for the discerning lady in the Intragalactic Empire."

  "Yes, throat doctors agree that Quantum Cigarettes' smooth and silky space smoke is good for your health," agreed Herc.

  "Absolutely," said Chekhov. "Smoking is very good."

  "Can we stop with the product placement?" asked M-ArtIn.

  “But we have sponsors,” said Herc. He turned back to the ambassador. “You called us here for a reason."

  Chekhov's face turned into a frown. "It's the McGuffin.”

  Herc gave a blank look.

  “It's gone."

  There was a deep intake of breath as everyone gasped (except for Herc and M-ArtIn. In fact, it was just Lolita who gasped).

  "Can't you just use a Proton Laser Optical Transponder to find it?" Lolita asked.

  Chekhov turned to Herc. "Any ideas?"

  Herc raised his chin confidently and gave a reassuring smile. "We'll need a P. L. O. T. device."

  "Brilliant," said Chekhov. She looked at Herc with seductive eyes, then her face sagged frownfully. "The only P. L. O. T. device on this world is in our rival city, B. And it is being held by the dastardly Native Princess.

  Herc nodded. "Then we have our mission. We must get from A to B to find the P. L. O. T. device and recover the McGuffin. The Intragalactic Empire calls."

  Herc, M-ArtIn and Lolita boarded a class-5 space skimmer that Chekhov had arranged for them to travel on. It was larger than the class-4s and unlike the class-6, it was still powered by handwavium technology.

  "We need to go to B," Herc said, turning to M-ArtIn.

  "Yeah, Buddy. I've been with you all along. I know where we're going." M-ArtIn did some robot stuff and the class-5 space skimmer came to life (metaphorically — it didn't actually come to life).

  Herc watched the vacuum tubes and rheostats as Lolita programmed a series of electric punchcards for the class-5 space skimmer's onboard nuclear computer.

  "Are we good to go?" Herc asked.

  "We're ready."

  The class-5 space skimmer rose from the ground, hovering like a class-4 space skimmer, only a bit betterer. It made a noise a bit like one of those Theremin things. You know — the sticks where you move your hands around and it makes a wobbly scifi noise.

  "What's that noise that sounds a bit like
a Theremin?" M-ArtIn asked, looking around with his robot face.

  "It's the handwavium," explained Lolita."As you know, Bob, when the quantum gravitons push against the duotronic waves, you get that weird sound."

  M-ArtIn made a really loud clang as he slapped his metal hand against his robot face. “I knew that.”

  Herc looked at M-ArtIn and lit up a Quantum Cigarette. "No one can ever fully know the mysteries of scientography," he said. "Best to not try." He took a cool drag from his Quantum Cigarette, allowing the silky smoke float around him like the dust cloud of a black hole. "You've got a dent on your head," he observed, gesturing to M-ArtIn.

  The class-5 space skimmer skimmed across the surface of Wolverhampton, racing over polluted canals, retail parks, abandoned factories, and people waiting in line for their space giros. They flew past high-rise tower-blocks made out of concrete and desperation (metaphorically, it was actually a composite of space steel and bricks). The urban sprawl went on for miles in every direction (except up, obviously).

  "When will we know when we're at B?" M-ArtIn asked.

  "We'll know," said Herc.

  Lolita bent over. She examined the dials and the printouts as her tiny skirt rode up at the back, revealing the tight white knickers clinging to her per little bottom. "There's something weird about this planet," she said.

  "What do you mean?" asked M-ArtIn.

  "We're looking for another city, but this whole planet is one giant city. How will we know when we're at the right place?"

  Herc shook his head and let out a big sigh. "Women," he said, rolling his eyes and nudging M-ArtIn. "Always worrying about the little details." Herc patted his niece on her head and shot her one his best smiles. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it," he said. "Everything is in hand."

  Lolita looked out across Wolverhampton, safe in the knowledge that her uncle was Herc Braveman — the Herc Braveman. "There's a Space Palace over there," she said, pointing with a long, sensuous finger. "Maybe that's B?"

  Herc folded his muscular arms. "M-ArtIn, there's a Space Palace a few clicks from our current position. Set a course. We've got a P. L. O. T. device to find. It's time to kick ass and chew gum, and I really like chewing gum," Herc said narrowing his with a look real determination.