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Stories from the Verse
A Dozen Verses
Chapter 3: Cooper 73
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Slade 251
Professor Brian Barrelmaster, in his Mister Justice union suit, flew down the metal tube in zero gravity toward the yellow skinned alien. Too late, he realized he had miscalculated the angle of approach to the open hatch, and he was going to crash into the iron wall, or bulkhead, yes, that is what they called it on a ship, he reminded himself. With a deep frown, the alien detached himself from the hatch, and leapt out toward him.
“Do not move, Terri,” the alien said, and grabbed at Brian’s legs. They spun twice in the open air, and Brian came to a halt with his face pointing to the side. Of course, in zero g, what was the ‘side’ or the ‘floor’ or ‘deck’ or ‘ceiling’? What did the navy call a ceiling anyway?
Looking back past his feet, he saw the alien had hooked on each to one of the brackets his own heels with a bone spur, and held Brian stable.
“Thanks. How did you stop me in midair? Or was it pure leg strength?”
“Spread your legs and arms out to slow the spin,” the alien grunted, and then added, “Don’t move. Luggage coming through.” He tossed Brian so that the verser’s feet went through the open hatch first, and a group of hands caught him on the far side, and stabilized him. Brian remembered that you could do the same thing, in reverse, with an ice skater, not that the locals would have much notion what that was. In order to speed up a spin, an ice skater would pull in arms and legs. Conservation of motion it was.
In the next tubular space, much smaller in length with only three brackets, he saw to his great delight at least eight different types of aliens. Giant purple ones, yellow ones, pink ones, blue ones, a solitary albino, a gleaming white one with crystals in his skin, a brown skinned ball shape with tiny feet and arms, and looking down on his face with a sardonic expression on its golden skin, a very tall manling.
“First time in space, Terri?” The voice was mellow and yet world-weary as the being quietly expressed derision.
Brian gulped and tried to sit up, but only folded himself, and tried to stand, but could not until the golden one helped him with one easy arm.
“Terri. That means Terran right? Earth?”
“Yes.” The question seemed to provoke some amusement from the golden one, and mutterings from the others.
“Are we in Earth’s Solar System? Um, my name is Brian Barrelmaster.” His name was actually Professor Brian Edwin Cooper, but he had changed it when all this wondrous strangeness had started. First he had arrived in a place of orange grass, and seen a tall, blond haired man blown up. Later he had refused to learn psionics from the residents of the plastic fortress Umak Tek because he suspected such as ungodly. A bush seemingly made of coral had lasered him into a new universe.
There he had met William Tell and his son Hans, and others, and been versed out after being tied to a stake for burning--although he had no memory of burning. After that, he had spent time in Berkeley, Colorado, a city in what he thought had been a national park in his home timeline. While there had been the American Forestry Patrol, some sort of local, partially government-funded conservation group, there had been no federal National Park System. He had fought a duel with the arch supervillain and madman Doctor Mordenslice, and been cut in half after having his neck broken by impact with a wall.
He was still not totally certain this was not a dream, or a simulation, or that he wasn’t an artificial construct that thought he was Brian Cooper, but for now the ‘verser’ theory seemed to be holding up. However, having the locals, who were clearly inhuman even if bipedal and sentient and tool-using and spacefaring speaking English was a point suggesting this was a dream.
Several loud chuckles and snorts and scoffs replied to his question. He looked right and left at the somewhat unfriendly faces until one pink skinned being, four feet tall with four arms, floated over him upside down. Looking up an alien’s nose was not his first preference for first contact.
“Earth’s Solar System, Terri? Where do you get off claiming the whole thing for your species? You lot barely have a dozen iron fission spaceships able to get up out of the atmo on your technologically backward planet. I ought to kick your ugly face, I assume that’s why you’re wearing a mask, back to your planet, and I think--”
“You’ll do nothing, Kark.” He heard the voice of the yellow manling who had caught him, and whom he assumed was the drill sergeant from behind him who closed the hatch. The tone was flat and dangerous.
Kark paused, and looked speculative for a second before replying.
“Aye, Second Mate.”
“Everyone, take your battle positions. They’re about to cut through the outer hull in--” A loud clunk was heard from ahead and to Brian’s right. “Now.” The men laughed grimly, as they went to waiting positions, and drew swords, axes, short staffs, and even a pair of daggers. A net was dropped from above, and tied off to the deck and all sides. Each fighter took a position on the net, with either a free hand or legs serving to anchor them in the net.
“OK, tenderfoot. You’re about to get what your people call the baptism of volcano.” You mean baptism of fire, Brian thought. “I’m going to put you here on the wall bracket. You stay behind the net, and just stab at any pirate who gets too close, you hear me. Do your duty, and not only will you live, but your ship will live, and without your ship--”
He raised his voice at the last, and the men responded.
“NO SHIP, NO LIFE.” All the men shouted in voices that ranged from squeaky falsetto down to below contrabass.
“Don’t worry about Kark. He’s just nerved up from the fight to come,” the Second Mate said, and moved to take a position in front of the net and in the middle of the area. He pulled out a short sword and a punch dagger, and Brian decided it was time to do likewise. He pulled out his sword, and although it did not glow, nor did he ask it too, it still was shining purity of purpose in killing. It was a terribly beautiful weapon, an angel’s gladius, he had heard, given to an ancient prophet of God much more than two thousand years ago. Which made him wonder if he had somehow broken things by bringing it here, to this universe, or if he had somehow hurt the previous universe. He hoped not, and praying made ready for repelling boarders even as a bright line in the shape of a large door was cutting through the metal wall of the spaceship fifteen feet ahead of him.
There is a behind-the-writings look at the thoughts, influences, and ideas of this chapter, along with eleven other sequential chapters of this novel, in mark Joseph "young" web log entry #524: Twisting Worlds. Given a moment, this link should take you directly to the section relevant to this chapter. It may contain spoilers of upcoming chapters.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
