Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos Read online

  Captain Hairdo rushes through the halls of his ship. He abruptly halts at the door labeled “RC9.” He uncomfortably shifts foot to foot in front of the slowly spreading aperture. It beeps twice quickly then slides open from the center. Pistoning forward Hairdo is enclosed in the room with a hydraulic fastening and heavy click. The quiet isolation is only interrupted by loud grunts, unidentifiable squeaking and a suctioning slurp. Captain Hairdo luxuriates in his much-needed pre-mission down time. After finishing his assignment in unparallel speed, Robo-Droid interrupts the ambiance. The notification button activates on the panel adjacent to the door. In Reflex and reticency, the sounds inside RC9 come to a hasty halt. Robo-Droid waits outside patiently for nearly two minutes before the pneumatic opening mechanisms begin to churn again. The widening maw stops abruptly, leaving only a narrow space in the black void available to the bot.

  “You have the papers?” Captain Hairdo’s voice comes through.

  Beep. Beep.

  “Good. Good.” A hand slowly emerges from the darkness, blindly fumbling around for the papers. Robo-Droid recognizes the futility of the Captain’s endeavor and saves him further embarrassment. Papers firmly in hand, the appendage quickly retreats. The door slams shut. “Thank you,” Hairdo’s muffled voice murmurs through the closed door.

  Papers rustle behind the sealed door serving as accompaniment to the resumed orchestra of bizarre bodily blares. Through a chorus of grunts – an arpeggio of struggle, an epic soundscape of war with interstellar tyrants, questing to subdue the spread villainy is weaved. But alas, his adventures are not so great as this is just a triumph over digestive disaster. He lets loose a sigh of relief; an enthroned king basking in his glory. The sound of his pants zipping barely registers, but the brash slurping toilet is inescapable.

  The battle won, Captain Hairdo emerges triumphantly from Relaxation Chamber 9; hands on his waist and head held high. Surveying his domain, a span of networking hallways; he plots his return to the bridge. Sheets of paper trail from his shoe.

  Striding into the command room, Hairdo finds Botchit poised above the controls like a gargoyle, stroking his beard, eyeballing the buttons quizzically. His delivery agent, with no predisposition for true autonomy, sits in its charging dock. Hairdo loudly clears his throat, flinging back his golden hair and posing heroically. His head tilts upwards displaying his manly cleft chin, pelvis pointed slightly outward and streamer of paper unceremoniously decorating his boots.

  “Report, Botchit.”

  “We’ve recently entered the Vegan System.”

  “Excellent. Robo-Droid, what does the sonic-o-scope tell us?”

  Beep. “Area is congested with Elephantine’s armada. Triangulated frequencies reveal his starbase location.” Beep.

  “Give me the numbers.”

  “Due 128.3 mongels.”

  “Hear that, doctor? Keep an eye out for enemy detection satellites.”

  Beep. “Rest assured, I detect no D.S. within ten mongels from here.” Beep.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “Earth has sent for Captain Hairdo, as expected.” Swansea smirks smugly.

  Elephantine bites into an apple fritter voraciously. “Okay. So...”

  “So, he is completely oblivious to our twelve, no,” Swansea pauses for a moment recounting the drones on his monitor, “Thirteen detection satellites and all is going as planned.”

  The pastry plops on the ground; the emperor frowns and begins to pay attention. He pivots away from the console, facing the guards in the command room. Steam rises from his bowl of bread pudding, he inhales deeply, his hands wafting the aroma into his nostrils. He bows his head into the bowl, excavating the food with his tongue, slurping up a mouthful.

  “Yes Emperor, those Earthlings are playing right into my… err our hands.” Swansea bows sneering up at the emperor, lip curled, “The pudding of malevolence is pleased. Soon they shall be but smears sire. Like errant drips of pudding festooning your cornucopic countenance, you need but to reach up and wipe them away.”

  “Pudding, you say? Sounds delightful!” Emperor Elephantine giggles clapping his belly. A short reflection on Swansea’s words halt his giggle, his folds falter. Frowning he laments, “that sounds like work.”

  “Then just beckon, as you do for your body slave and all the wiping shall be done for you liege. Shall we unleash the cleaners?”

  “Yes Swansea, do as you please, cleanse the system of these human crumbs, which reminds me…” Finished, Elephantine abruptly stands, allowing the bowl of pudding to crash to the ground. The porcelain explodes into dozens of pieces. Its contents puddle at his feet. Standing he beckons with wobbling arms, smearing the pudding mess. “Sentries come!”

  A group of helmeted men step forward, saluting and acknowledging his command in unison. “Yes, sire!”

  “Bathe me!”

  The sentries step back to their positions, turn and exit the room. When they return, each wear nothing more than a tightly-fitting terry cloth thong and helmet. “Yes, sire!” Properly dressed for the occasion, the near-nude men escort their emperor into his bathing chambers.

  Left alone in the command room, Swansea Picklesworth moves to the command chair.

  His fingers intimately caress the fabric. “That glutinous fool.” He cautiously does a visual sweep of the room for witnesses, then plops down in the seat. “I may be nothing more than advisor, cook and manservant, but someday… Ho! – someday I will no longer be Swansea Picklesworth, Duke of Evil, but rather Swansea Picklesworth, Lord of Evil!” Swansea seizes in uncontrollable laughter, slapping the command chair. His overzealous exposition of ambition ends prematurely. Buzzing from the view screen interrupts and an image slowly appears. The picture never fully resolves. Swansea whirls about, squinting to make out the scene. From what Swansea can tell, there are figures obscured within a mist. He considers the peculiarities of the image, noting the condensation accumulated on the view screen and the strange splashing sounds.

  “Swansea, are you there?”

  “Yes sire,” the servant sighs.

  “Marvelous! Fetch me a mound of macaroons. I feel a might peckish - that’s right boys, scrub hard! Use your knees when you lift. You lift he’ll scrub…”, various further bathing commands are barked out and the scene is abruptly cut off.

  A chill creeps down Swansea’s back, he shivers. Clenching his fists, he swallows his disdain and turns from the screen.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  “So far so good Doc.”

  “I told you Hairdo, nothing, but smooth sailing…”

  Red lights blaze to life as the bridge shakes violently. “What in the name of Ajax hair volumizing gel was that?” The ship continues to tremble. “Robo-Droid, report!”

  Beep. Beep. “We’ve been hit.” Beep. Beep.

  Captain Hairdo and Botchit turn their incredulous faces from the robot. “Doctor, please tell me you have something more…substantial.”

  “Other than, I’ve wet myself?”

  “Can nobody give me some intel?!”

  Botchit discreetly dabs the crotch of his pants with his lab coat and provides his only suggestion, “What do the monitors say?”

  Captain Hairdo looks to the instruments, regaining his composure and strikes another manful pose. “Very well. We’ll consult the monitors.” The screens spring to life at the flick of a switch. Enemy ships zoom across the display, weaving intricate circles around their craft. One ship, guns straight into Star Dancer’s sensor range, close enough that Hairdo and his crew can observe the pilot and the rude hand gesture he displays.

  “We’re under attack!” Botchit screams. Captain Hairdo, on the cusp of combat, compulsively runs a hand through his luxurious hair.

  “Then move aside and give me the controls.”

  “There’s no time to switch stations! Man, the laser cannons, I’ll try to steer us clear of danger!”

  In an instant, Hairdo is at the combat station, locking onto the nearest fighter craft. Botchit follows through, immedia
tely eluding the dive-Bombing fighter’s line of sight. The ship maneuvers back around to face the bulk of enemy Chicken Hawk ships. After shooting several warning shots, Hairdo slams a fist against the control table; flipping open a small box from which he procures a VR helmet. Wires protrude from the metallic helm, which is perfectly molded to ensconce his bold pompadour.

  “Captain Hairdo, ready for combat.” The visor slips over his eyes, linking the electronic frequencies to his neural network.

  Brief jolts followed by throbbing pain crawl through the captain's nerves, like the crackling bolt of a Tesla coil for several seconds, while the interface fully initializes. He grimaces and jerks at his station, writhing like a dying beast until the device finally syncs with him.

  The VR unit announces, “Parameters set. Establishing augmented user interface. Subpar user detected, neural overload eminent cognitive compensation engaged. Reduce neural feedback processing bandwidth by 300%. Welcome back Captain Hairdo”

  “These space raiders will be handsomely rewarded!” Green crosshairs appear in the center of Hairdo’s vision. “With swift justice, that is.” Captain Hairdo drones in a high-pitched monotone, seemingly unending battle cry as he presses furiously at the firing controls. Lasers, missiles and old-fashioned leaded projectiles spray from the ship’s weapons array. His ship roars, a wild beast of prey, spewing death from its gaping maw across every coordinate of space.

  “Weapons are overheating,” the system alerts him, blinking red on the VR display.

  “How’s it going, Hairdo?” Botchit grunts, steering the ship into a spiraling evasive maneuver, skirting incoming fire.

  The captain is dumbfounded, horrified that all of the enemy ships remain undamaged by his barrage. “Their evasive skills are…commendable.” He scratches his head, embarrassed. “But cowardly. They—”

  The ship rocks again, buffeted by the incoming fire. The flanking enemy fighters firing bursts, accurate volleys of munition from every direction.

  “Captain, we’ve been hit!”

  “Keep us steady Botchit!” He refocuses his attention on the crosshairs. “Tricky little bastards.”

  “I don’t think we can win this fight.”

  “Like hell, we can’t!” Hairdo unleashes another barrage of fire, accompanied by his signature monotone claxon war cry. Enemy forces, ready for retaliation, dart around on his display like houseflies dodging a sledge hammer. Small fast targets, dodging slow powerful blasts. Hairdo’s voice dwindles to a hoarse bleat. The discharged weapons again overheat. All enemy fighters remain undamaged, intact and again prepared to return volley.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” Botchit demands. “Activating hyperdrive.”

  Fuming at the defeat, Hairdo sees no alternative. Nodding his affirmation to Botchit, “then you had better use the atomic booster.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Robo-Droid, initialize countdown.”

  “No time!” Botchit slams a fist on the huge button labeled ATOMIC instantly jettisoning their craft through the very fabric of space-time. A kaleidoscope of colors and shapes dance about them in what feels like a single, glorious moment of time. The ship reemerges to a typical spacescape, all save the robot companion occupy the floor, disoriented by the trip.

  “Botchit! Report!” Hairdo coughs.

  “You’re not going to like this, sir.” Brief, blinding light engulfs the members of the bridge. Light fades replaced by the armada of enemy ships surrounding Hairdo’s vessel.

  Beep. “They have followed us.” Beep.

  Hairdo and Botchit slap their foreheads in consternation. They are unified in disappointment, shaking their heads at the vapid tacky banality of their robotic friend’s disposition and utterances.

  “There must be some way out of this.” Hairdo frantically examines the control panels. He hopes to discover an overlooked button that could prove their salvation.

  “Is there no end to their unrelenting madness? Wait! I think I’ve found the solution to our problem.” Botchit grins madly.

  Captain Hairdo finally rises to his feet, staring off beyond the garrison of ships. “Why do I have the feeling your plan involves that asteroid belt?”

  “We can lose them in there.”

  “Oh no, you better not.”

  “Don’t worry, Hairdo.” The scientist fumbles with the navigational controls.

  “Botchit! This is a terrible idea!”

  “Don’t worry Hairdo, I won’t let you down.”

  “Botchit!”

  Captain Hairdo jolts violently to the right.

  Beep. “We’ve been hit.” Beep.

  “I can see that!” The captain clumsily flails his hands in search of something to support himself with. Before he can grip a solid handhold, his body flies against a console and slides limply to the ground.

  Beep. “We’ve been hit.” Beep.

  “Barely,” Botchit defends himself.

  “Barely?” the captain coughs from the ground. “Should I even bother standing back up?”

  “Trust me, it’ll be smooth—”

  Beep. “We’ve been hit.” Beep.

  “Shut up!” Botchit and Hairdo command at once. The robot slinks back to its charging station. Meanwhile, asteroids continue to collide with the spaceship, as if somehow seeking their vessel. Captain Hairdo eyes the scientist suspiciously, watching him jerk the navigational joystick with the proficiency of a fetus. It certainly doesn’t help that enemy fighters remain on their tail, firing wildly at the ship’s stern.

  “A small request, Botchit; can you try to miss at least one of those asteroids?!”

  “This is a lot harder than video games would have you believe,” Botchit sweeps a free hand from the controls to the field of oncoming debris. The Star Dancer hurdles along its precarious path, attempting and spectacularly failing to avoid the clusters of asteroids. The smaller ships chasing them make their way through the field with little difficulty, further insulting Hairdo’s sensibilities.

  “Botchit!”

  “Hyperdrive engaged.”

  “What?”

  “That wasn’t me, captain, it was the computer.” The scientist eyes the damage reports. “It looks like—”

  Beep. “We’ve been hit.” Beep.

  “As I was saying…we’ve been hit and—”

  Again, all vision is lost to a spectacular light. Hairdo sees distortions of space through the VR display. Blocks of matter shift and warp, stretching out beyond naturally occurring dimensions and disappearing into a single point on the horizon. Hairdo’s vessel follows their example, stretching forward towards the vanishing point. Their speed increases exponentially hurtling through hyperspace. Abruptly the Star Dancer lurches to a brutally forceful halt in front of a starbase.

  Captain Hairdo rips the helmet from his head, tossing it over his shoulder. He stomps to the navigation controls, eyeing Botchit furiously. “Dammit, what have you done?”

  “I was attempting the triple-bypass triangulation evasive maneuver and must have accidentally hit the hyperspace button. Here.” He begins flipping switches and pressing buttons. “Oh, sweet son of science!”

  Hairdo looks up. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

  "We have arrived at Starbase Tiramisu."

  Hairdo plants his head in his palm. “Tell me the computer is confused.”

  Robo-Droid wheels over to the command console, seizing his compatriots’ attention. “I can confirm our location,” beep, “Emperor Elephantine’s Starbase, Tiramisu.”

  “Kill the thrusters, Doctor.” The ship continues forward. “I said kill the engine, Botchit.”

  “I’m…I’m trying, I can’t. Our trajectory has been locked in a strong magnetism. It’s pulling us into their docking bay.”

  Hairdo throws his hands up in disgust.

  Tiramisu’s docking bay entrance slowly spreads for Hairdo’s ship. Star Dancer clears the open doors and breaches the loading area. The viewing monitors jolts back to life. All scre
ens display an unexpected countenance.

  “Greetings, fools!” A gaunt man on the screen cackles under his breath, pleased with his nefarious yet vague introduction. “Oh yes…”, he hisses steepling his fingers, “the pudding of malevolence will be pleased. Most pleased indeed.”

  Hairdo steps forward. “Salutations. I am Captain Hairdo of the Interstellar Confederation of United Planets. While on a mission to recover contraband—”

  “Blah, blah, blah. I know why you are here, fools! Sweet strudel, why must I constantly be subjected to individuals so inferior to myself. We have you locked into our docking coordinates, see you soon.” Swansea twiddles his fingers at the monitor. The picture abruptly cuts off.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  In the star base’s command center, Swansea Picklesworth rotates in his chair. A guard stands behind him, wearing a magnificently detailed rooster mask, offering no words. Swansea adjusts his position, the rooster masked guard steps close. Uncomfortably close, his shiny red, metallic wattle reflecting the station’s light. Swansea spies him from the corner of his eye and imperceptibly shifts over in his seat.

  “So…Cockmaster? Am I correct in assuming your entourage is already there?”

  Cockmaster doesn’t reply.

  “So… umm… why don’t you go down and help to make our guests feel…comfortable? As…comfortable as you make…me.”

  Cockmaster salutes and shuffles from the room. Only when he’s completely gone does Swansea release a sigh of relief and wipes the sweat from his brow.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  In their command center, Hairdo and Botchit stare emotionlessly at the blank view screen.

  The scientist clears his throat. “We should probably leave the ship at some point.”

  “No one forces a captain from his ship.”

  “We’re in their territory, Hairdo.”

  “No, Botchit. We’re in our territory, which just happens to be in their territory. We have jurisdiction here.”

  “Hmm,” Botchit scratches his chin. “Maybe there’s a way to force their station’s exterior docking bay doors to open. But we’ll need time to hatch a plan and interface with the controls. Time, I fear we don’t have”