Rocket Repo: A humorous space opera (Reassembly Book 1)
Rocket Repo
Reassembly Book 1
C.P. James
ROCKET REPO: REASSEMBLY BOOK 1
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Copyright © 2021 C.P. James
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All rights reserved.
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.
Cover by Amy Pinkston
(www.wellcoveredbooks.com).
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
The Gash and the Tunnel
Chapter 2
April 10, 2427
Chapter 3
Come Here Often?
Chapter 4
Traveling Exhibit
Chapter 5
An Early Morning Swim
Chapter 6
Q-36 Space Elevate, Or …
Chapter 7
Space Junk
Chapter 8
For Sale Make Offer
Chapter 9
Xenomorph Zoo
Chapter 10
The Unwanted Passenger
Chapter 11
Bye Bye, Cap’n
Chapter 12
Caloth
Chapter 13
Hell Well
Chapter 14
Red vs. Black
Chapter 15
Hau Nau
Chapter 16
Water, Water Everywhere
Chapter 17
Tots
Chapter 18
Tatiana
Chapter 19
What Happens in Undersea Vegas
Chapter 20
Pretensia
Chapter 21
Entrée New
Chapter 22
Minor Money Misunderstanding
Chapter 23
The Red Raven
Chapter 24
Kigantu
Chapter 25
Voprot
Chapter 26
Dr. Tardigan
Chapter 27
Kriggy
Chapter 28
A Peek Under The Hood
Chapter 29
Nyaptomurk Poppers
Chapter 30
The Double A
Chapter 31
Sammo Yann
Chapter 32
Last On The Block
Chapter 33
Tretiak
Chapter 34
Housekeeping
Chapter 35
Final Boarding Call
Chapter 36
Flight of the Penetrator
Trawler Trash: Reassembly Book 2
Chapter One: Acceptance
About the Author
Also by C.P. James
Foreword
Toward the merciful end of 2020, when we were all sick of everything and everyone and dreading the widely forecasted Winter From Hell, I was putting the finishing touches on the last book of my debut series, The Cytocorp Saga. They aren’t any darker than other dystopian fiction, but to write it while a real-life dystopia was unfolding … well, it got to me after a while.
After a short break, was ready to dive into something lighter and with fewer moving parts. I had this idea years ago about a guy with a one-of-a-kind spaceship who wakes up to find it stolen and, eventually, chopped up or otherwise sold off for parts. How fun would it be to follow this guy around as he tried to literally get his ship together, and in the process, figuratively get his shit together?
First, some critical backstory.
I had excellent friends growing up, especially in high school. Against all odds, we achieved nerd-vana — just enough cred to not get shoved into lockers but not so much that we ever had to worry about deciding which party to attend. Our interests overlapped where it mattered, particularly when it came to movies, books, and stories in general.
One of our favorite activities in study hall and on the band bus (trumpet, in case you wondered) was passing a sheet of paper back and forth in order to write the foulest, most violent, sex-filled story we could possibly conjure in the moment. Two voices, one goal, one sentence at a time. Here’s an example of what our 15-year-old selves might have written using italics for the other author:
One day, while walking home in a frilly little dress and humming a happy tune, Anna encountered a hole in the ground.
From inside came a child’s voice. “Help! I’m trapped in this hole!”
She stuck her hand in, but something latched on, yanking her down so hard that her skin peeled like a banana. She landed in a cavern filled with hot blood. Only it wasn’t blood, but acid.
“Oh no!” cried Anna. “I thought it was just hot arterial blood, but it’s actually acid! Aieee!”
Suddenly, a tree fell over the hole and trapped her in the subterranean room full of acid. Only it was a very weak acid so she realized she would dissolve slowly like a nail in Coke. But it didn’t matter because she was on her way to dive off a cliff onto jagged rocks.
So, when you think about it, Anna got what she wanted. Just not how she wanted. And that was the lesson the kid wanted her to learn.
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THE END
I can’t tell you what twisted, dorktastic fun that was. Pure creation. Two friends, stewed in the same pot of Troma movies, Monty Python, the National Lampoon, and Fangoria magazine, writing down whatever popped into their heads and dying laughing, especially when there was a tug of war over which way it should go. (See acid/blood issue above.)
These sloppily constructed slabs of pulp formed the undergirding of my tastes, such as they are.
Around that time, I really started noticing the elements of story — especially the ones I responded to. I liked wisecracking heroes like Jack Burton from Big Trouble in Little China and Ash from Evil Dead. Space, aliens, weird stuff, so much the better. I especially enjoyed unexpected swerves into humor or camp, and even the occasional hint of romance, e.g. “Gimme some sugar, baby!”
But I also wanted to be like Stephen King or my then literary hero, Clive Barker. Guys who didn’t mind going really dark but were also writing on just another plane entirely. I was drawn to the fun stuff, but I didn’t want to be the guy who wrote just fun stuff.
Okay, backstory complete. Now let’s fast-forward thirty years.
After Cytocorp, I was ready for a palate cleanser of sorts. To go back to my roots and try to recapture that same feeling of fast, fun writing. To write the kind of story I needed, and maybe what everyone else needed while applying the many, many storytelling lessons learned while writing the trilogy. Rocket Repo is the result.
Long story short, this is me in book form. If you’re reading it, then maybe you had nerdy friends yourself. This is for you as much as them.
For Mom and Dad. Thanks for understanding — or, at least, always trying to.
Chapter One
The Gash and the Tunnel
Geddy Starheart peered deep into the steaming gash and thoug
ht of Tatiana.
If only she could see the final piece click into place. The singular dedication he’d shown to this chore would’ve impressed her. The years he’d spent mining the ore. The modifications to the smelter. The precision with which he cast every piece of his ship.
Of course, after she was done being impressed, she’d drive her stiletto heel into his forehead, because he was supposed to be dead.
The first of the bots appeared through the crack, its tukrium skin still glowing red from heat so intense it warped the air around it. The metal tracks whined and whirred, spinning up sparkly clouds of silicon-rich volcanic dust as it turned up the well-worn path, heavy with ore. Then came the second and the third, the luminous metal fading as it cooled. They lined up behind the first in a rickety little caravan.
One salvage bot could make two trips into the fissure before something conked out or melted. Anything more was pressing his luck. He’d lost four already. They weren’t designed for mining at all, say nothing of extreme heat, and reprogramming them was a hassle.
Even from across the old lava tube, the heat radiating from the hole in the rock pushed his thermal suit to its limits. Just fifteen minutes left him feeling like a well-done pot roast, sweat running down the small of his back and into his ass crack like au jus. Even the water in his reservoir became too hot to drink after a while. He lumbered across the sandy floor and fell in behind the bots as they climbed back up to the main tunnel.
The deep tracks they left in the sand suggested a good haul. With a little luck, it would contain enough shinium, as he’d come to call it, for the final piece of the ship. Running it through the smelter and casting it would carry him well into the evening. Two, maybe three days and Earth 2 would be behind him forever.
If he could, he’d hang his arm out the window and give it the finger.
Even the recycled air of a starship would be preferable at this point. Doubling up on filters barely cut into the smell. On a good day, it reminded him of burrito farts the morning after a cheap-beer bender. A bad day, however, was like the devil’s smegma.
No wonder it was now known as The Deuce.
Yes, technically it was his fault, but the geothermal plant would’ve tapped the pocket of hydrogen sulfide and methane eventually. It sure cleared everyone out in a hurry, though. The last transport left six months to the day after the gas first reached the city.
Tatiana showed up two weeks after the completion of Geo 2, which was to replace the aging Geo 1 plant. He could tell she was important, but not until she addressed the crews on the floor did he learn she was Ivan Semenov’s daughter and sole heir, whom he’d put in charge of energy production.
And oh, what energy she produced. He could still see her, ice-blue eyes peering out between long black lashes, platinum-blond bangs slicing across her forehead like a razor.
Every Monday morning, she would show up and tell them they were worthless bottom feeders who were being replaced by robots. Good god, it was hot. Geddy wished to know her intimately. Getting tight with the Semenovs would cement his future, erase his debts, and potentially keep his past from catching up with him.
Her father practically owned Earth 2 and had a reputation for being a hard-ass, but no ass in the sector was harder than Tatiana’s. He had to have her. Had to.
A friend of a friend got him a gig tending bar at one of Ivan’s legendary parties. When she came slinking up in a painted-on dress, he turned on the ol’ Starheart charm.
“Martini,” she cooed. “If I taste vermouth, I’ll have you sacked.”
“You got it,” he’d said with a wink, his pants suddenly tight in the crotch.
Geddy was a beer and whiskey guy. He wasn’t entirely sure how to make a proper martini, which went a long way toward explaining his empty tip jar. While she leaned against the bar, ignoring him, he surreptitiously jumped into the archive and found the recipe, completing her drink half a second before she turned around. She sipped it, frowned, and gave a shrug.
“Well?” he asked. “Do I get to live?”
“For now.” She studied his face like it was a curiosity. A museum piece. But she didn’t leave or call security, which was enough to put it in the W column.
“Hey, I wanted you to know how much I enjoy your pep talks.”
Her eyes narrowed, the corners of her luscious lips downturned. “What?”
“In Geo 1. When you said bots could do twice the work in half the time, it really inspired me. And when you had us all point and laugh at Dennis for losing his arm in that drilling accident? I mean, wow. Chills. And he learned an important lesson.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Geddy.”
She returned several times for more martinis, and at the end of the night, he took her home. What followed was the most depraved and wanton experience of his life to that point, during which he lost enough electrolytes to give him a minor seizure. Man, what a night.
Six weeks later, they were engaged. Everything was falling into place.
One day, however, he was en route to the plant when he launched into a violent sneezing fit, snot spewing from his nose like the syrup dispenser at a continental breakfast. He’d never had allergies before. It went away, but that night he heard it for the first time. An androgynous voice in his head.
— Can you hear me?
He was completely alone at the time, checking pressure gauges in the sublevel. He couldn’t tell if it was male or female, but it was pleasant and non-threatening.
“What?”
— I’ve tapped directly into your auditory cortex. Only you can hear me. Don’t worry, you’re not going insane.
For the first of many, many times, he thought he was losing his mind. Too much booze and sex, he figured. But the voice remained. Not even headphones could drown it out.
— I need your help.
“Where are you? Who are you?”
— I am a consciousness in a durable form you might call a spore. You inhaled me. Who I am is a difficult question to answer, but I’ve waited a long time.
The next time, he only thought his reply.
— I’ve inhaled a lot of shit. Nothing ever talked to me.
— Better get used to it. We’ve got a lot of work to do.
Chapter Two
April 10, 2427
The spore’s name was unpronounceable in any modern tongue, but the first part sounded like Eli, which is what Geddy decided to call it. He resisted, rejected, and railed against the fact of his new and inescapable companion for weeks. Eventually, resistance gave way to acceptance, and that was the path forward. They’d since settled into a comfortable equilibrium.
Most of Geddy’s life had been transactional. Go here, spy on so-and-so, report back. Find this one guy, break his legs if necessary, and extract what he owes. Everything came in tidy little packages.
Building the Penetrator rock by rock and die by die was nothing like that.
Geddy had flown a thousand starships but didn’t know jack about building them. That was where Eli came in. He didn’t have to create literally every part from raw materials, but it was vital the ship’s exterior be completely clad in shinium, for it was the only material strong enough to withstand the barrier around his home world.
There was a good reason he'd never heard of shinium. Eli explained it was formed by violent celestial events billions of years ago — Big Bang-level cataclysms under very specific gravitational and magnetic conditions. Thus, it was exceedingly rare. Even if its existence was discovered, the techniques for smelting and working it were only known to Sagaceans, Eli’s kind, who Geddy also hadn’t heard of.
If it existed on Earth 2, it would be very deep.
His work at the plant customarily took him into the service tunnels, which made it easy to conduct his exploration and core analyses in secret. After a few months, Eli hoped they might discover a vein of the precious ore by exploring a little-known system of lava tubes and uncharted caves nearby. To know for sure woul
d require a smidge of explosive and several metric tons of willful ignorance. The first he managed to acquire with little difficulty. The second he already had in spades.
The blast opened a pathway to the ore, but it also cracked open a weak spot in The Deuce’s unsettled bowels, triggering a massive collapse that blocked his return and released an ocean of smelly gas. When they couldn’t find him, authorities assumed the worst.
By grace or by luck, he followed the caves until they dumped him out on the other side of the stubby mountains west of the city. By then, though, the noxious cloud had reached Laguna, and an emergency was declared. He was on his way to find Tatiana when he spotted a news crawler on a holo-board proclaiming the tragic accident claimed the life of a worker named Geddy Starheart.
The original plan was to build the ship in secret, but as he monitored the situation from a distance, he realized all he needed to do was wait. He watched the last transport leave from a lonely perch on the hillside and got to work that very afternoon.
Fortunately, Earth 2 already had a smelter because of the crust’s high concentration of bauxite, whence came aluminum. The process of extracting and working shinium, however, required extensive modifications that took the better part of a year. Designing around the available components, another year. On and on it went.