Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos Read online

  Captain

  Hairdo

  Conquers the Cosmos

  by William McDonald and Danielle Dorsey

  Captain Hairdo Conquers the Cosmos Copyright © 2019

  by Danielle Dorsey and William McDonald

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover illustration by Aidan Kelly

  Sketches by Tito Miranda

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: Jan. 2019

  ISBN: 9781791686284

  William’s Dedication

  To Danielle Dorsey, writer, artist, animal lover and thief. She stole my heart and won’t give it back.

  To my father who should rest easy now, knowing that I finally finished something.

  To my son Asher, whom I think about often, but see rarely. I hope life treats you well.

  To my mother who helped me with my writing early on and is deeply missed.

  To my grandmother who was always kind and my grandfather who taught me to be a man.

  Also special thanks to Nerbyl, Mochi, Spike and Petra, the best climbers, rollers and Viking bug slayers the world has ever known.

  Danielle’s Dedication

  To all my companions: scaled, furred or feathered, both here and gone. Company when I was friendless and love when life was empty.

  Uncle Tim, sometimes we cannot speak our truths and run out of time to rectify.

  William, you showed me what love and partnership means. May we continue our collaborations to the Vegan System and beyond.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Enter Our Heroes

  Chapter 2 Prisoners of the Emperor

  Chapter 3 The Butter Dome and the Bastard’s Betrayal

  Chapter 4 The Sexy Sirens of Syrus Six

  Chapter 5 Leather, Lace and Iron

  Chapter 6 The Techni-Colored Truth

  A Taste of Darkness

  William A. McDonald

  Danielle M. Dorsey

  Prologue

  Metropolis, the great city was founded as a think tank and refuge for those talented in the scientific arts. Great patrons filled the city coffers, propagating both infrastructure and innovation. As the gap between rich and poor increased, the demand for workers collapsed under the weight of robotic automation. This ignited the civil unrest that plagued the twenty-first century, conflicts became more turbulent.

  Then Earth witnessed a change.

  The displaced workers of the world rose up. But instead of descending into a new dark age of luddite primitive naturalism or embracing a make-work culture, which would only result in more comfortable chains to toil in, humanity took a different path.

  New technologies revolutionized the standard of living. Robotic engineering ushered in a new age of leisure, an age of productivity and innovation. This presented an unprecedented opportunity to establish a post-scarcity economy. Thanks to radical social engineering, education was promoted as a statement of personal worth. People were no longer celebrated for their fiscal wealth, as money no longer held status, but rather individual achievements and their contribution to the whole of society was held in the highest esteem.

  A science-centric socio-culture disseminated throughout humankind and religion finally lost its crippling grip on the minds of the human race.

  Rockets touched the far reaches of space and returned to exuberant reception. The foundations for interstellar exploration were thus established.

  By 2400 CE, the New United Nations positioned itself as the centerpiece in a confederation of planets. One hundred and eighty-three years later, it stands as the pinnacle of sentient civilization.

  Despite all these advancements and efforts to promote peaceful interplanetary relations, no amount of coaxing can wither the root of evil. Again, Earth rests in the crosshairs of villainy…

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “You are just my play thing, subject to my whims and fancies.” A finger gestures in an elegant line, tracing from the janitor mopping beside the command console back to the lithe, malevolent figure lording over all in his vicinity. “How peaceful you look, that dull countenance, as you mop the leavings of another man’s rectum. You are indecent in your churlishness.”

  The janitor removes an earbud from his right ear, “Say something mate?”

  Face pallid, seething in rage, with a whirl of black robes Swansea’s attention returns to his view screen, rededicating focus to his scheme. The target cuts through the Earth’s atmosphere. “Chart the trajectory, mark that rocket!”

  Settling back in the command chair, the villain flexes his supple black leather gloves and cocks his elbows; leaning back, hands supporting his pale bald head. Foul water splashes across his boots. Shrieking, he jumps out of his seat.

  “Oh, sorry mate,” Jerry tosses a dirty rag at the dark figure, “This’ll clean it right up, can’t imagine what lurgy this bloke got what would cause such an eruption.”

  The crusty rag hits Swansea Picklesworth Duke of Evil in his stunned unblinking face, slides down his torso and lands at his feet. Shaking he points a finger at the janitor, a shrill almost inaudible shriek unfurls from the depths of his shattered psyche.

  “Seems like there’s a trail that leads round here abouts.” Jerry continues casually chatting and mopping around the Swansea’s feet. “I think I may need another mop… and bucket come think about it…”

  The shrieking ceases immediately Swansea subtly nudges the soiled trousers further in the shadows beneath the command chair. His tremors grow intense and Swansea wails anguished. “A mind such as yours could never comprehend the forces at play!”

  “Can’t hear ya gov just a tic…” In one fluid motion Jerry shoves the mess-soaked mop into Swansea’s hand and bends over to pick up the fallen rag. The mop’s ropey head slaps down Swansea’s chest in a goopy arc, an eldritch cry builds, between dry heaves. As Jerry comes up, he pops out an earbud and sets the soiled rag in Swansea’s hand retrieving the mop.

  The command lights flicker, reflecting on the metallic beaked helmets of the guards at their command posts. The chicken guards shuffle nervously observing the train wreck currently commencing in their vicinity.

  “Shoot him,” Swansea snarls still pointing at Jerry.

  “Sir?” a command station guard steps forward nervously.

  “Kill him now,” Swansea’s head rotates menacingly towards the chicken guard.

  The chicken guard looks from Swansea to Jerry cheerfully bopping to his tunes and mopping the prolific mess. “But it’s Jerry…”

  “Are you refusing an order?”

  “Sir?”

  Gesturing Swansea demands, “Hand me your disintegrator pistol.”

  Gulping the chicken guard reluctantly hands him the weapon. Immediately, a screech sounds. A release of concentrated energy particles zap Jerry in the chest. He collapses in a heap, into the bucket spilling the contents all over himself and the floor. The tinny sound of Katrina and the Waves’ Walking on Sunshine can be heard drowning in the liquid waste cascading over his body. Jerry’s chest begins dissolving into a fine ash. The destruction radiates outward from the point of impact dissolving Jerry’s flesh until all that
is left is a soggy pile of ashes and his nametag. The dark man crouches over the necro slurry and gingerly picks up the mop.

  “You disobeyed a direct order from your superior, you should be executed right now. I could drown you in the remnants of excrement water, but for you I have reserved a fate much worse.” Swansea hands the chicken guard the filthy mop. “You are the new Jerry and you have a mess to clean up”

  The chicken guard sighs, hitches his shoulders and begins mopping. Smiling Swansea relaxes back into the seat. Settling in he kicks a leg over the left chair arm. Intense mouth breathing warms his right ear delivering a meaty aroma with an intense mustard follow through. Crunches and gloopy chewing predicate a glob of mayonnaise plopping on Swansea’s shoulder then sliding down his silken robe. A stubby finger swoops in over his shoulder and swipes the blob up. Dread fills Swansea’s withered heart and his gut churns.

  “Hey guys’, munch munch, “how’s it going?”

  Coolly sliding from the chair Swansea answers, “Very well my liege. We’ve intercepted the rocket and secured all targets.”

  “Oh nice,” wobbling, an obese arm waves a turkey club hoagie over the mess on the floor, “So Swansea, what’s the deal with this mess?”

  “A poor had some indigestion, passed away and was too lazy to complete his work,”

  “That’s unfortunate,” the enormous half naked man spies a name tag, adjusts his spectacles and leans in to get a better look. “Oh no was that Jerry he was great; the chicken guards love him. Oh hoagie, we just scheduled to use his time share on planet Chub Chub… Reserved the shuttle tickets and all. So, why were you on my command chair?”

  “To act as a human shield for the effluvial explosion that just rocked the command deck, most regal Emperor Elephantine.”

  “Your selfless sacrifice should be rewarded…” Emperor Elephantine takes a moment to think, then shoves his mangled turkey club in Swansea’s face. Mouth full he asks, “Wanna bite?”

  Retching and crying inside, Swansea steps back but tries to mask his revulsion with a deep bow, “Your gracious recognition is reward enough my king.”

  “Your loss,” Elephantine shoves the remaining 6inches of sandwich down his maw and claps his abundant gut satisfied. “Jerry’s untimely death aside this is a thrilling time for us. You are forging exciting new enterprises, opportunities that may afford this empire delightful new experiences… The only concern is those wasteniks despoiling precious resource in the first place… The letter guys…”

  “The Interstellar Confederation of United Planets my liege.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what their problem is but I’m ready for them, see…” Elephantine pivots his girthy hips to and fro lifting his legs and pointing his toes to better model the neon pink mesh thong festooned with cascading gold chains which adorns his ample behind. Light glimmers off his golden pauldrons and matching imperial roman helmet as he gyrates. “You said that we may have a run in, so I wore my battle thong.”

  Swansea shudders, “Most intimidating sire.” He then nods towards the primary command console and strokes his raven Fu Manchu. “Alas I doubt we shall encounter any resistance in this operation. Our heat signature readings detect no life on the vessel and scans revealed no software that indicates automated support nor defense systems. The only software is navigational and we disabled their maintenance alarms and tracking with first probe. Engage the tontin canon and pull it aboard!”

  Emperor Elephantine claps and flops down on the command chair. Instantly, he is hit with the heinous stench drifting from the stygian depths beneath him. Pinching his nose, he beckons the chicken guard turned janitor. The Emperor gestures around the command chair. “This smell! Do something…and for the love of science get a fresh mop and bucket.”

  Chapter 1

  Enter Our Heroes

  “C

  ome in, Captain Hairdo. Captain Hairdo, come in please…do…tain…lling Captain Hairdo…ease respond.”

  A lone ship tears across space. The Star Dancer bears the winged unicorn insignia of the much-loved Captain Hairdo, self-proclaimed and publicly-accepted, “Earth Hero.” Inside, Captain Hairdo fumbles with his tachyon radio transmitter, adjusting knobs here and there in a vain attempt to reach a clear signal. Working with electronics was never his specialty. A wonder considering, he operates his ship with a skeleton crew, thank science for autopilot. “Hairdo here, I’m receiving you, Star Command.” Legs propped on the console, he stares ever-outward into space envisioning his next adventure: who or what he will meet, the dangers he’ll encounter and the once in a lifetime opportunities bestowed to no other.

  “Requesting transmission via view screen.”

  Hairdo skews his lips to the left. “You know I hate that thing.” His eyes scan countless beacons of light spread across the void before him. “Ruins the view.”

  “We have an emergency situation, Captain.”

  Grunting Hairdo sits up, pulling his legs from the console. “Fine…” Grimacing he pushes a button and the beauty of space is replaced by distasteful static. The captain waits twirling strands of his blonde pompadour impatiently as the granulated three-dimensional voxels shift into place. The tiny cubes form a coherent volumetric image of his commanding officer, General Pompous.

  “Garbage transport 3-2-7 is missing.”

  Hairdo rests his chin in cupped fingers, slowly dragging them across his smooth skin sighing, “A garbage transport, you say? Well… Have any toilets you need unclogged? I could track down any rogue septic tankers, while I’m at it.”

  “I can understand your incredulity Hairdo but take a look at the manifest. I have provided you with a digital debriefing,” Pompous informs.

  Scanning the manifest Hairdo proclaims, “That is quite the dump run, things could get messy if it’s not recovered.”

  “I’m glad you understand, Captain.”

  “Indeed. Rest assured that we will clean this up.”

  “Good luck, Hairdo. All of Earth and the Interstellar Confederacy is counting on your success.”

  The static on the viewing screen clicks off, translating the clear image into grainy bits, then fades away. Calming lights speckling the vastness of space are revealed around the vessel. Hairdo no longer basks in the luxury of leisure; the call of adventure has finally sounded. He will not ignore its beckoning. “Alright, team!” he hollers through the intercom system. “Once again, the Earth needs our help!”

  The cabin door slides open behind Captain Hairdo. A ragged unshaven man sporting a white lab coat with dark disheveled hair and red rimmed eyes sidles through. He attempts and fails to close an empty button hole, “Does this mean we get to leave this science forsaken garbage district for some real work? My liver can’t take another lunar league ambassador escort mission. All that drinking… All of those escorts…” He shudders.

  “Funny you should mention garbage Botchit…”

  The door reopens, a vaguely humanoid robot lumbers in. Navigating to a patching bay the robot positions itself near the data port.

  The man in the lab coat regards the robot impassively, watching it beep and stumble its way to the center of the bridge.

  Dr. Lemme Botchit briefly meditates on the complexities and idiosyncrasies of Robo-Droid’s construction; cylindrical tubes connecting to convertible appendages. Hominid hands give way to pincers in a pinch. Bipedal limbs are replaced by utility wheels when wanted. These fasten to an assemblage of hollow graduating collapsible oblong units. A cylindrical head not dissimilar to an old-world earth bucket sits atop this crowning achievement of off-brand patent piracy. Though fully customizable with digital decal skins and aromatherapy diffuser packs, its design serves a purpose more practical than aesthetic. Like collapsing down to fit inside most overhead compartments on public transport.

  Botchit looks to Hairdo, once again finding his focus, “What’s the mission?”

  “A garbage freighter has disappeared just past Orin’s belt. All tracking, diagnostic signals and emergency beacons
are offline. Plus, it has missed all the designated route hubs for several hours. The Confederacy believes these are not coincidences.”

  “What use is there in stealing a garbage freighter?” he snorts.

  “Not much, Botchit. Unless, of course, it’s transport 3-2-7.”

  “You don’t mean...”

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  “The hijackers must not know what's on that freighter. No one could be so crazy.”

  Beep, beep. The robot steps forward. Beep. “Analysis indicates the involvement of the Elephantine Empire.” Beep.

  “It figures.” The doctor curses their fortune under his breath, snapping his fingers in a descending arc. “The entire Vegan System has been off its rocker since the Fair-Trade Alliance fell apart. But to use a substance like that for nourishment is absurd. The science is all there – but no, some civilizations refuse to sacrifice trans fats for health. Such arrogance!”

  Hairdo clears his throat. “Right! Regardless of their motivations, we must put an end to this plot. Doctor, you’re on the helm. Robo-Droid, catalogue everything you can about the stolen freighter and the Vegan System. Bring a hardcopy to relaxation chamber nine. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, captain,” the doctor salutes, leaping into the Capitan’s seat assuming the controls. Their robot companion offers a monotone beep and begins its remote processing of the ship’s data stream. The cached data is gathered from just before the ship was disconnection from the ICUP server’s databases. As the data is received and compiled, Robo-Droid’s body starts to vibrate vigorously. Robo-Droid squats down as the data dump starts printing itself automatically from betwixt its legs, plopping in a neat pile on the floor.