Pew! Pew! - The Quest for More Pew! Read online

  Volume 2

  Pew! Pew!

  The Quest for More Pew!

  8 Comedic Space Opera Adventures of Space Monsters, Dashing Heroes, and a Healthy Dose of WTF!

  James S. Aaron | S.E. Anderson | Drew Avera | M. D. Cooper | Zen DiPietro | Chris Fox | J.J. Green | TM Toombs

  Pew! Pew! Volume 2

  Copyright © 2017 by The Wooden Pen, LLC

  Escape from My Fishwife Text Copyright © 2017 Zen DiPietro

  Spellslinger Text Copyright © 2017 Chris Fox

  The Gli+chover Text Copyright © 2017 Drew Avera

  Trash Beings of the Galaxy, Unite! Text Copyright © 2017 J.J. Green

  Crash Text Copyright © 2017 James S. Aaron

  Miss Planet Earth Text Copyright © 2017 S.E. Anderson

  For the Love of Llama Text Copyright © 2017 TM Toombs

  The Disknee World Text Copyright © 2017 M. D. Cooper

  Cover Design by Christian Kallias

  www.pewpewbooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, reviews or promotions.

  The books contained in this compilation are works of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First eBook Edition: 7th September 2017

  Table of Contents

  This comedic space opera collection contains novellas by nine different authors. A brief description of each book is provided below. Click on the book title to jump to that book within the collection.

  Escape from My Fishwife by Zen DiPietro

  Charlie Kenny is that rarest of creatures—a redshirt who has left Earth to travel among the stars. He’s survived a bug attack, a tank-driving monkey outbreak, and the cold vacuum of space. But now he faces his biggest challenge: his accidental marriage to an Albacore woman, which leads to being pursued by loan sharks. He’ll need all of Greta’s luck and Pinky’s muscle to avoid sleeping with the fishes.

  Spellslinger by Chris Fox

  Wesley is a space archaeologist, the special breed of adventurer willing to brave strange worlds and forgotten nebulas in search of vanished civilizations. Unfortunately, he’s also a coward. When he discovers the key to the greatest treasure ever discovered he’ll have to overcome his allergies, while accidentally saving the galaxy.

  The Gli+chover by Drew Avera

  After a devastatingly crushing, utterly suicidal, incredibly stupid trip to Europa, Ben returns to Earth embarrassed and defeated. But Earth isn’t the home he left behind. In orbit, a mass of darkness looms threateningly, and it is the only thing standing between Ben and surviving.

  Trash Beings of the Galaxy, Unite! by J.J. Green

  Trash has become the new, lucrative weapon of warfare, and Jaquil Rarebit wants a piece of that action. He yearns to become a garbage mogul, but the sheltered tweenager finds he’s bitten off more than he can chew when his internship with Trash Iz Uz morphs into a deadly battle for survival. Can Jaquil ditch his dungarees, escape the clutches of shady corporate entities, and find his place among the trash gang?

  Crash by James S. Aaron

  Let's get ready to Crash! When young thug Ngoba Starl gets caught up in a plot to hack Cruithne Station's e-sports scene, he's going to make some friendly new acquaintances in organized crime who might blow his head off, throw him out an airlock, murder his friends… or maybe all three? Watch out for the mecha-dolphins, battle Corgis and drunken barbarians as they smash their way across Cruithne's underground in a Battle Royale that will leave the fans screaming for more and Starl running for his life. Crash on!

  Miss Planet Earth by S.E. Anderson

  Katra Zorento overslept the Milky Way’s first ever Miss Universe pageant by 13,000 years. With her visa long since expired, she must return to the planet that once was Earth.... That is, of course, if dashing space pirates don’t get in the way. Katra’s only allies are a mysterious assassin trapped in a nine-year-old’s body and a droid with memory issues. But if she survives this, she could win the most valuable crown in the universe.

  For the Love of Llama by TM Toombs

  Commander Mia Cochran, relegated to garbage scow duty, is forced to blackmail her captain and commandeer his ship to locate and steal a psychoactive contraband. At stake is the life of Tefeau, the closest thing she has to family and one of the most deceitful beings Mia has ever met. She only has four solar days to save her erstwhile friend’s life—or land in the brig.

  The Disknee World by M. D. Cooper

  Lashes has seen a lot of things, but nothing quite prepared her for The Disknee World. An entire planet of dwarves, pixies, talking bears, flying monkeys, and a heck of a lot more. Oh, and the Detla Team has to solve some mysterious disappearances. Just as soon as they sort out what they’re going to use their Fusion Passes on.

  Escape from My Fishwife

  by Zen DiPietro

  It’s all fun and games, unless you’re a redshirt. Then it’s pretty much just running, screaming, and trying not to die.

  Charlie Kenny didn’t expect to live past the age of twenty, much less become a space-traveling adventurer. A redshirt like him mostly just cowers in a dark, quiet place that doesn’t have sharp corners or choking hazards. That was his plan, too, until he met Greta and Pinky, who have changed his life completely.

  Now, thanks to his jet-setting lifestyle onboard the travel and tourism ship Second Chance, he has a whole new problem. Somehow, he’s inadvertently gotten married. Now he has to duck his wife and the loan sharks that are following her. He hasn’t gotten over his fear of forks, so he definitely isn’t prepared to be a husband.

  Can Charlie survive all that, plus a vicious giant flamingo attack and an elevator gone psychotic?

  Signs point to no.

  Chapter 1

  My name’s Charlie Kenny. I’m a redshirt. Yes, that kind of redshirt. If you’re new to my story, that’s all you really need to know. I’ve been marked for death since my birth. Bad luck is a genetic condition among my people, and it’s only due to the combined luck and badassery of my companions that I’ve survived this far.

  This means that I’m reluctant to let my friends down. I owe them, on a cosmic level. They’ve taken a sectarian rube and made him into a universe-traveling adventurer.

  At least, that’s what I’m aiming for. Today is starting off with some hardcore training, and I’m just hoping I don’t shame myself.

  “Are you ready?” Deep concern shows on Greta Saltz’s face.

  Am I? I’ve been working up to this for a month.

  A month doesn’t feel like enough, but I don’t want to disappoint Greta. Behind the bar of the Second Chance, Pinky looks on with the casual air of someone who isn’t interested. She’s good at that.

  “All right,” I say. “Let’s do this. Kenogu!”

  Kenogu has become our battle cry, thanks to Pinky. It’s a phrase from her homeworld, that translates roughly to “shit happens” but also means that it’s up to you to deal with whatever’s in front of you. It suits us pretty well.

  Across from me, shrouded beneath a towel, lies my nemesis. To prepare myself, I imagine I’m Pinky. Seven feet of pink Mebdarian mutant, with a constitution of what I suspect is steel if not something s
tronger.

  Greta moves the towel aside, revealing my enemy: four long blades protrude menacingly toward me until she grips it, reverses it, and holds it out to me. “Just hold it for five seconds. That’s all.”

  Light reflects off the monster’s silver surface, gleaming at me with evil intent. I want to run almost as much as I want to impress Greta.

  I’m Pinky. I’m tough, fearless, and could eat this thing if I wanted to.

  I reach out and my fingers are on the handle.

  I’m Pinky. I chew on razor blades for fun and sometimes grown men cry just at the sight of me.

  I curl my fist around it and Greta begins counting.

  “Five.”

  I’m Pinky.

  “Four.”

  I once single-handedly took down a pod of bloodthirsty blagrooks, then acted like it was nothing.

  “Three.”

  I’m not afraid of anything.

  “Two.”

  My hand begins to shake.

  “One.”

  I drop the fork and back away from the table. I’m not even aware of having stood up.

  “Great job!” Greta cheers, rushing over to give me a hug.

  Sadly, I’m too concerned with conquering my urge to dry heave to enjoy her embrace.

  Pinky casually drops a towel over the fork and picks it up, then slips out the door. For someone her size, she can be amazingly stealthy.

  “Thanks.” My insides feel like jelly, but I’m not about to admit that to Greta. Lovely Greta with the golden glow.

  Literally. She’s Garbdorian, and her people have a natural luminescence. With that skin and her pale green hair, she looks wonderfully cosmopolitan to a previously Earthbound dullard like me. I’ve been working hard to become more like her and less of a sectarian rube. I’m making strides, but clearly there is much work yet to do.

  I first boarded the Second Chance with nothing but tragic family history and a dream. My destination was a retirement planet, which, at the time, seemed like a brilliant place for a guy like me since I’m destined to be eaten by a yeti-gator, fall into a pulper, or be assimilated into a cyborg like my poor grandmother.

  Ah, Nana. I keep meaning to write her a letter. I’m not sure how much of my real nana is left in there but she sends me a care package of shitty cookies every now and then, so there must be a little more than a glimmer at the least. And it’s not her fault she makes really bad cookies. She made great ones before the cyborgs came along.

  But back to forks. That’s the personal phobia I’ve been battling for years. Dr. Ramalama, who used to be my doctor, gave me a great many sessions of unhelpful therapy for that and other anxieties.

  I need to write her a letter, too, actually. I haven’t yet officially fired her as my mental health practitioner. I’ve been gathering my thoughts. These things take time.

  The truth is, Greta and Pinky have been far more help than that old ding dong ever was. Greta’s bizarrely good luck has tempered my bad luck. In return, my bad luck has ensured that not everything goes her way, and she thrives on the excitement brought on by the unlikely events that come my way.

  Her luck has protected me from a grisly death more than once.

  We have a certain yin and yang, when it comes to luck. We balance each other out in an interesting way.

  Pinky rounds out our group. Her luck is of the ordinary variety, but she has a certain terrifying badassery that is a comfort to me because I know she’s got my back. It also makes me very, very careful to ensure she remains my friend.

  I’ve landed in a sweet situation here on the Second Chance—it’s the kind of thing that doesn’t happen to a guy like me. So I’ve seized the day, and my kenogu, by trying to better myself.

  It’s an unlikely opportunity that sure beats being harpooned, like my great-granddad.

  I am a lucky guy, as far as redshirts go. I have no intentions of squandering this rare good fortune.

  “Let’s celebrate!” Greta declares. It’s early morning and we’re the only ones in Pinky’s bar. Statistically, I’ve found that fatal accidents are least likely to occur in the early morning. This is why our fork exercises take place at such an unfortunate hour. On the bright side, Pinky hardly requires any sleep, so she’s game for pretty much anything.

  I dig that about her.

  “One yak milk for me, straight up. And a Backdoor Special for Charlie,” Greta says, still speaking too loudly.

  “You got it,” Pinky says.

  When had Pinky returned? Seriously, she has mad skills when it comes to sneaking. Who would have thought?

  Pinky begins her unique, violent ballet of drink mixing. She has a way of making the process look like a vicious struggle, ending in a triumphant murder. And yet it’s all somehow disturbingly beautiful.

  “Care to have a drink with us, Pinky?” I hope she’ll say yes and drink enough to give me some deeper insight into her. She’s not terribly forthcoming, and I have a lot of questions.

  She considers, then shrugs. “Why not? My mother always says, ‘starting out the drunk a little day is always a good idea.’”

  “Uhm.” I hate to correct Pinky, but that sounded wrong. “Did you mix a couple words, there?”

  “No. My mom did. Good old Mom is pretty much always at least a little bit drunk.” Pinky wears an expression of pride.

  I don’t know what to do with that, so I ask, “So what will you drink?”

  “A Peppermint Boot.” She grabbed a tall, v-shaped glass.

  “Peppermint schnapps, dry vodka, and beef jerky, right?” I ask.

  “You got it.” She turns away to make her beverage.

  I sip my Backdoor. Pinky’s been teaching me bartending. I still work remotely via the lightstream as a statistician, but I find I have a lot of free time and little to do with it. Learning to mix drinks seems like a good use of that time. I like how most recipes are just ratios. It suits my mathematical mind.

  Plus, I enjoy hanging out with Pinky. Not only is she capable of thwarting a great many threats to my life, she’s just dang cool.

  Greta pats me on the shoulder. “You’re doing great with the fork training.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pinky joins us with her Peppermint Boot in hand. I take a moment to appreciate the sight. Pinky keeps a selection of extra-large glassware for people who are more sizeable than most. Oh, and Martians. I always thought the jokes about them were just stereotypical nonsense, but those Martians can drink.

  I’ve learned a lot during my short time in space.

  Anyway, Pinky stands there across from us, holding a glass that for her is a mere beverage, but for me would constitute doomsday prepping. I’d guess that her little aperitif contains no less than three cylindrical liters of hard alcohol.

  Greta sips her yak milk. For some reason, Garbdorians aren’t affected by booze like most species are. It’s like lemonade to them. But get some lactose in them and they’re having a good time. Yak milk, for whatever reason, is especially potent for them.

  I’m learning a lot about other species these days.

  “You know,” Pinky says after a long quaff of Peppermint Boot. “Mebdarians invented forks. So, sorry about that, since your brain is all broken and stuff.”

  I don’t know if she’s joking or serious. There’s really no telling with Pinky. Her deadpan delivery has no rival. She claims her people have invented a lot of things that they definitely have not, and I think she means it. But again, it’s impossible to be sure.

  I’ve found it’s easiest to just go along with it. “Not your fault. It’s just a redshirt thing to have complexes and phobias.”

  She fixes me with a supercilious look. “Didn’t say it was my fault. I said sorry your brain’s broken.”

  Right. Okay. I lift my Backdoor at her in reply. The drink. Not the other thing. If Pinky ever decides to kick my ass, it’ll be the last thing that ever happens to me.

  Greta giggles. She’s halfway through her yak milk and already looking happy. He
r luminescence has increased, too. It’s quite pretty.

  My situation with Greta is tricky. I like her. Like, like her kind of like her. She’s fun, witty, generous, and, unlike many people, not terrified to sit next to someone she knows is a redshirt. I’m rendered unable to ask her out, though, by my concern for messing up our friendship. I’ve never had what I have with Pinky and Greta. This level of comfort and camaraderie is otherwise unknown to me. I don’t think I could give it up for anything, even a chance at more with Greta.

  Plus, there’s the fact that I’m married.

  I never thought I’d get married. I didn’t intend to, either. Greta, Pinky, and I were having some laughs on a space station run by some fish-people called the Albacore. They seemed pleasant enough, though their need to hold water in their gill pouches to keep their membranes from drying out makes them sound like they’re underwater when they talk.

  One of them asked me something that sounded like, “Shall we go to the ferry?” I thought she was offering to be a tour guide. I got something way wrong, though, because a couple weeks later, I got slapped with alimony papers. I still don’t understand what happened.

  My wife’s name is Oollooleeloo, according to the legal documents. It’s kind of a nice name, actually. When no one else is in the shower room, sometimes I put my head under the water and make Oollooleeloo! sounds. It’s fun. You should try it.

  Anyway, so far I’ve stayed ahead of the alimony stuff. Living on a travel and tourism ship has its benefits.

  That pretty much explains my life right now. It’s great. The best I’ve ever had. I do the work for my firm, I duck my fishwife, and I hang out with Greta and Pinky. We have the most fun when the ship hits a port and we can go adventuring. Though simple days just banging around the Second Chance are great, too.

  Greta’s cheeks are turning pink, and she raises her glass for a toast. As I clink my glass against hers and Pinky’s, I can only think of how much I don’t want anything to come along and ruin all this.