“Monkeyshines” by J.B. Rockwell (part 1 of 2)

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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

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and Today’s story is the first of two (2) parts

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of “Monkeyshines”

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by J.B. Rockwell, part-time scribbler and cat-wrangler,

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and author of the Serengeti series (Serengeti, Dark and Stars, and Hecate )

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by Severed Press,

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the upcoming novel Forgotten Stars & Distant Seas

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due for release in 2021 from Severed Press,

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and the supernatural/weird novella

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Crimson King also due for release in 2021

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from Bizarro Pulp Press. [if this is the second or third entry] Last time, [characters and events took place, and we ended on a cliffhanger where things and stuff…]

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“Monkeyshines” by J.B. Rockwell, Part 1 of 2 A flash of light in the darkness,

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a brilliant bar of brightest blue knifing from the stars,

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squiggling, twisting, writhing across the emptiness of space.

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Phinnaeus Crowhammer

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never saw it coming—not until the last possible second

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—and by then it was too late.

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The blue bar slammed into Threepenny Raven,

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pounding her triple-thick hull,

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scoring her metal composite skin

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and sparking tendrils of electric fire

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that crawled hungrily along her side.

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Klaxons screamed, filling Raven’s bridge with a shrieking,

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ear-splitting dissonance.

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Crowhammer snarled and slammed his palm against a big red button,

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killing the sirens instantly.

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“What. The fuck. Was that?” he demanded,

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glaring at his crew.

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Blank faces. Blank,

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nervous faces staring back at him.

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“Anyone? Any ideas?

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Anything at all?” Silence on the bridge,

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everyone carefully avoiding Crowhammer’s eyes.

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“Wonderful. Fucking wonderful,”

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he swore. “Daughtry!”

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Daughtry stiffened,

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one hand lifting,

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fingers tapping against his temple.

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He was First Mate

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—a dark-haired, dark-eyed pretty boy Crowhammer should have hated,

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except he was a damned fine second in command.

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“Who’s on—Shit!” Another flash outside, another snaking blue bar

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writhing its way toward Raven.

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“Brace-brace-brace!”

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Crowhammer grabbed at the back of his Captain’s chair and held on tight as the second blue bar

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crashed into them,

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rocking Raven hard to port.

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Sirens erupted immediately,

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klaxons sounding all over the ship while people screamed and cursed up a storm,

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filling the bridge with a cacophonous of noise.

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“God fucking dammit!” Crowhammer swore, punching the kill switch to silence the klaxons.

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Again. “Daughtry! Why are those klaxons so goddamn loud?”

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“Well—” “Never mind. Jorgenson!”

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Jorgenson was gunner’s mate

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—a hulking, blond-headed block of man stuffed into the cramped space of a gimbaled artillery station to one side. “Jorgie! What the hell’re ya doin’?”

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“Nuthin.’” “Exactly. What should you be doin’?” “Shootin’?” Jorgie guessed.

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“Brilliant, Jorgie. Fucking brilliant. Really.”

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Jorgenson smiled happily.

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Crowhammer drew a deep breath, struggling to control his temper.

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Jorgenson wasn’t a half bad gunner, but sometimes he was

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insanely stupid. “Find a fucking target and start shooting.”

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“So… you want—” “Goddamn it, Jorgie, stop fucking around!”

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Jorgenson gulped and paled,

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ducking his head

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like a contrite schoolboy.

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“The station says ‘gunner’ so you fucking gun, you idiot.

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Keep those things off us, you understand? ”

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“Aye, sir,” Jorgenson squeaked,

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grabbed the targeting visor and pulled it over his eyes.

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The gimbaled pod pivoted,

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armaments coming on-line,

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artillery systems powering up,

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searching for targets.

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Two more cobalt bars appeared,

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writhing through space with a cloud of tumbling crescents following in their wake.

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Jorgenson locked on to them,

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humming softly as he squeezed the twin firing mechanisms and spewed out

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a scattershot of forced ion pulse rounds

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that lit up the darkness outside Raven’s hull.

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Hallelujah. Something gone right for a change.

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“Daughtry!” Crowhammer wheeled around and found his First Mate picking himself up from the floor.

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“Who the fuck is shooting at my ship?”

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“Don’t know, sir.” “Don’t know.

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Why the hell not?

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Who’s on long range scan?”

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“Trucchi, sir.” “Who-sy?” “Trucchi.

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New guy,” Daughtry said, nodding to a hatchet-faced woman

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manning the long scan station. “Trucchi. Right.” Trucchi was all spit and polish,

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head shaved up both sides,

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face fixed in a perpetual frown,

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blue eyes two cold, hard lumps of ice.

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Not exactly his idea of a woman.

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Women were supposed to be soft and curvy,

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something warm and comforting to snuggle up to.

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Trucchi looked about as cuddly as a steel girder. “Coochie!” Crowhammer barked.

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“Trucchi, sir,” Daughtry corrected.

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“Whatever. New guy!

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What’s—?” The ship shuddered,

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trembling violently as another blue bar plowed into it.

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Light flared brightly,

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arcing cobalt blue as bolts of electric fire shot across Raven’s hull. “Jorgie!” Crowhammer whirled around, stalked over to the artillery station and smacked Jorgenson hard in the head.

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“What the fuck, Jorgie?! I said keep ‘em off us, so fucking keep ‘em off!”

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“Aye, Captain. Sorry, Captain!”

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Jorgenson pivoted madly,

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tracking everything and pouring out forced ion fire as fast as his ham hands could squeeze the triggers.

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He was a pretty good shot and did a decent job of thinning the dense blue cloud behind the snaking blue bars,

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but there were a lot of targets out there and the canons could only hit so many of them.

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The first of the bars plowed into them, rocking the ship.

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The second knocked her hard over, sending Crowhammer and everyone else on the bridge crashing to the ground,

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rattling their teeth as the leading edge of the blue cloud peppered Raven’s hull.

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“Jorgie!” “Sorry! Sorry-sorry-sorry!” Crowhammer sighed and picked himself up.

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Yelling at Jorgenson clearly wasn’t helping, so he decided to yell at someone else for a

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while. “Hoochie!” “Sir!” Trucchi whirled and braced up hard,

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hand whipping up,

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snapping off a crisp salute

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and then assuming a parade rest stance.

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“It’s Trucchi, sir.” “Don’t care.

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How the fuck’d you miss that?”

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Crowhammer demanded,

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stabbing a finger at the bright blue energy missiles lighting up the darkness outside.

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“Didn’t, sir. Sent the warning to your Captain’s station.”

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“Warning?! What warning? I didn’t—”

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“Ahem.” Daughtry caught his eye,

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nodded to a blinking red light on the arm of the throne-like chair Crowhammer had recently vacated.

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“Warning light, sir. Just as she said.”

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“Light? A fucking light?

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Thousand fucking lights on this bridge, Daughtry. How the hell—”

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“Warning light’s regulation, sir,”

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Trucchi cut in. “Regulation?”

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Crowhammer blinked and stared.

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“What the fuck does regulation have to do with anything?

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Daughtry!” He rounded on his First Mate,

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one hand flailing angrily in Trucchi’s general direction.

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“Spit and polish and everything by the regulations?

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What the fuck is she doing on my ship?”

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“Militia, Captain.” “So?

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What does that have to do with anything?”

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“That group of Militia that boarded us a few months back? You said

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join or die?” “Sounds familiar,” Crowhammer nodded.

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“Trucchi was with ‘em.

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Did the math and chose the lesser of two evils.”

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“Huh?” Crowhammer considered Daughtry a moment,

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trying to decide if that was an insult or not then turned back around.

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“Whatever. Moochie! Tell me what’s out there.”

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“It’s Tru—never mind,” she sighed,

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turning around, tapping away at her station.

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“I’m on it.” No ‘sir’ that time.

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Might be hope for her yet.

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Crowhammer congratulated himself for providing such a positive role model.

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“I want star charts, Trucchi.

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Sensor data, anything you’ve got so we know who the fuck—” More impacts, everyone stumbled,

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yelling and cursing

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as Raven slewed sideways.

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“Godammit, Jorgie, you useless piece of shit!

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You’re the fucking gunner and I expect you to fucking hit something every now and then!”

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“Too many-too many-too many,” Jorgenson panted,

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artillery pod pivoting frantically, turret guns

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spraying out dozens of rounds.

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Raven’s shots hit and hit again, striking the tumbling crescents,

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obliterating them in showers of cobalt energy, but they just kept coming.

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Jorgenson was right

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—there were too many.

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Alright, time to get Jorgie some help. “Otter!” Crowhammer yelled, turning towards helm

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and the dapper, furry fellow manning the oversized ship’s wheel.

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“Jorgie can’t hit shit so yer gonna have to dodge those fuckers.” Otter blinked and stared,

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agile paws lifting to pull at the earflaps of his leather skullcap and snug

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it more closely to his head,

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and afterwards checking

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adjusting the welder’s goggles perched atop it,

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lenses glittering in the flash and flare light.

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He grabbed the trailing end of a cream-colored scarf

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and whipped it around his neck as he squared his furry shoulders

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and rounded on his Captain,

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spewing a long string of angry

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and incredulous chitterings from his sharp-toothed mouth.

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“Impossible? Fuck impossible,” Crowhammer said,

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cutting the helmsman off.

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“I said dodge, Otter, now you fucking dodge those fucking things before they tear holy helloutta my ship!” Otter huffed and glared,

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and then he grabbed the wheel

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and hauled it over, damn near turning Raven onto her side as he brought her about.

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He was an ace pilot, was Otter—the best Crowhammer had ever seen

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—and he steered Raven’s massive bulk with ease,

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slipping her to one side to let a fast moving energy missile shoot by

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and then dodging the other way to avoid a fractured cloud

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of tumbling crescents.

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Jorgenson kept plugging away,

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doing his best to clear a path,

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and for a moment

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Crowhammer thought they had it.

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Then, “Brace!” he screamed.

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A blue bar caught Raven square in the side,

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punching her hard as another followed behind it, scoring along her nose.

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Raven shuddered and pitched,

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knocking half the crew to the floor.

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“Back ‘er up, Otter!”

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Crowhammer screamed to be heard over the klaxons.

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“See if we can at least get outta range of whatever’s shooting at us.”

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Otter nodded and leaned to the side,

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tapping at buttons with one agile little paw while the other steered. “Talk to me, Gucci. What’s out there?”

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Crowhammer growled.

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“Gucci? Seriously?” Trucchi looked offended.

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Too fucking bad. “What. The fuck. Is out there. Gucci?” “Nothing,” Trucchi told him, waving helplessly at the floor to ceiling windows wrapping the front of the bridge.

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“It’s just empty space,

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just like the charts say. There

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shouldn’t be—Incoming!”

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Yelling. Better. Quick learner that girl.

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Raven shuddered as a cloud of cobalt blue rounds smashed into her, peppering her grey skin.

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“Fuck-fuck-fuck! That is not empty space, Hoochie!”

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A quick look outside showed two more cobalt bars

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fast approaching,

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a sea of tumbling, sparking crescents following close behind.

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“Jorgie!” “On it-on it-on-it!”

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“Otter!” More chattering—angry, indignant—accompanied by animated gestures of agile otterish paws. “Yeah

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-yeah. I see ‘em. And I know Jorgenson’s a crap shot.

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Just get us outta here!”

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Otter squawked something rude

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and flipped him the bird,

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but he did as he was told, throwing the ship into full reverse

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and turning the wheel, eyes flicking from the blue bars outside to the computer screen beside him as he headed for the hills.

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“C’mon-c’mon-c’mon,”

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Crowhammer muttered,

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staring through the windows,

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watching the bars track closer.

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“Miss-miss-miss.” It didn’t look like they would,

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but Otter kept backing away and at some point the missiles lost focus, sailed past Raven

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and writhed angrily into deep space.

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“Thank god,” Crowhammer gave Otter a thumb’s up.

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“Park ‘er here and keep an eye out,

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Otter. Gucci! Talk to me!”

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“It’s Trucchi you goddamn

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—” “Gucci-Trucchi-monkey moochi- Mama-Liucci—I don’t give a good goddamn. Just tell me

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what the fuck is out there, woman!”

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“Scarecrow!” she spat

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and jabbed her finger at a blinking red dot on her screen.

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“Scarecrow?” That was the last thing he’d expected her to

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say. “Can’t be.” Scarecrows were limited capability AI watchdogs

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—an invention of the Law’s Customs division.

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They were originally designed to keep tabs on the freighters transiting the shipping lanes, but some bright spark decided to arm.

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So when the AIs went rogue—as they all inevitably did—things went south quickly.

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“What the fuck is a Scarecrow doing way out here?

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What the fuck is a Scarecrow doing anywhere?!

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Daughtry! Thought the Law got ridda those things!”

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“Decommissioned and scrapped. That was the official word.”

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Daughtry stepped to Trucchi’s station

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and examined her screen.

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“She’s right, though.

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That’s a Scarecrow out there.

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Guess they missed this one when they were rounding the damn things up.”

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“Figures. Law never was very good at record keeping.”

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“Hang on. There’s something else here.” Daughtry tapped at the keyboard,

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bringing a second record up on the screen.

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“Yer gonna love this.

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Law didn’t miss it, they sold it.”

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“Sold it? Mother fucker. What a buncha cheap ass, low-life, no good, monkey screwin’

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-sold it to who?” “Take a guess.”

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“Militia.” “Bingo.” “Bastards!”

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Militia were black market, paramilitary heavies for hire.

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They were everywhere these days, and for some reason Threepenny Raven kept running into them.

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“And I’m guessing from all that blue shit out there that the Scarecrow’s still got all its armaments.”

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“Snakes and Scorpions,”

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Daughtry nodded. Snakes were the squiggling

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bars, Scorpions the rotating crescents that detonated so prettily.

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In combination they were deadly.

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Take a ship like Raven apart in less than an hour, those

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nasty-ass, hammer-and-sickle munitions.

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“Lovely. Just bloody lovely.”

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“One more thing.” “Oh god. Don’t tell me,”

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Crowhammer groaned, covering his face with his hands.

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“That thing your cousin sent us after? The lockbox?

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Scarecrow’s sitting on top of it.

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Right on top of it.”

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“Meaning?” “If we take the Scarecrow out, we’ll destroy the lockbox with it.”

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“Well fuck me. Ain’t this a pickle.”

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Crowhammer folded his arms over his chest and stared out the window.

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The smart thing to do would be to get the hell out of here, leave that psychotic thing alone.

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“How much are we gettin’ paid fer this?”

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“Five million.” “Hmmm,” Crowhammer murmured,

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finger tapping against his lips,

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watching a fresh batch of Snakes and Scorpions writhe their way through space and then disappear off one

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side. “Hoochy—” “Trucchi, sir,”

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she corrected tiredly.

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“Query the system.

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I want schematics,

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design diagrams, everything we’ve got on Scarecrows. And when you’ve got all that,

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I want you to tell me how to kill that fucker.”

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“Okay…” Trucchi saluted uncertainly

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and then turned around, fingers flying across the keyboard.

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“Not bad, eh?” Crowhammer smiled, nudging his First Mate in the side.

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“What?” “The view,” he said, gesturing at Trucchi’s bottom.

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“The spit and polish gotta go, and she’s built like a freight train mated with a piece-a jerky, but I gotta say, Trucchi’s got one helluva sweet ass.

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Too bad there’s a gigantic stick shoved up it.” Daughtry sighed and raised his hands but Otter crept over and snuck a look

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—snuck a long look

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—and then gave his Captain two thumbs up. “See? Otter knows a fine piece-a ass when he sees one.

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Good man, Otter.” “Alright. That’s enough,”

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Daughtry said, shooing Otter back to his station.

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“So why’s it here?”

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he asked. “What’s in that lockbox that’s so important it requires a Scarecrow to guard it?”

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“Hell if I know,” Crowhammer shrugged.

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“You mean you didn’t check the manifest?” “Course I did.”

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“Really?” Daughtry’s look was skeptical to say the least.

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“Not carefully, but I did check it.

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Read the cover sheet. Got the basics. Bad business not to.

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Worse than doing business with family,”

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he grimaced. Family in this case was Cousin Horatio

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—the idiot who had set this all up.

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Horatio who was

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Law and yet had somehow failed to mention the AI death machine watching over the very thing Raven and her crew had been sent to pick up.

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“Broke my cardinal rule takin’ on this job,”

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Crowhammer muttered.

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“Daughtry! What’s my cardinal rule?”

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“Never date a woman with an eyepatch.”

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“No. Well, yes. But no in this case. Jorgie! Rule number one.”

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“No assless chaps in the cargo bay.”

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“That’s more of a guideline really,

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but—Family, you idiots! Never do business with family.

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God! It’s like I don’t even know you people any—”

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“Captain? The manifest?” Daughtry prompted. “What? Oh.

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That. Spiders or some such,”

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Crowhammer said, waving one hand vaguely.

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“Spiders. That’s it?

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Nothing else?” “Don’t think so.

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Stopped readin’ once I saw spiders,

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though. Hate spiders. Creepy things.” Crowhammer shuddered, grimacing in distaste.

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“Why would the Militia need a psychopathic death machine to—”

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Cough! “What?!” Crowhammer snapped, whirling around.

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Otter waved and pointed at the data record he’d called up on the screen. “Ah.

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The manifest. Good man.”

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Crowhammer walked over and examined the information while Daughtry looked over his shoulder.

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“See? Spiders,” he said, pointing at a single word written in rather large, red letters on the first page.

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Daughtry tapped a key,

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paging to the next screen and frowned

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at two words near the bottom.

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“Arachis hypogaea,”

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he read, sliding his eyes to Crowhammer.

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“Last I checked, spiders were arach

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-nid.” “So, if it’s not spiders, what is it?”

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Daughtry queried the system,

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and then wisely kept his mouth shut as Crowhammer scanned through the information

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it brought back. “Peanuts.

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Yer fuckin’ kiddin’ me.

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We’re literally doin’ this job fer peanuts.”

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Technically, they were doing it for five million, that was the contract.

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At the time, it’d seemed like a sweet deal

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—a fat wad of cash to essentially be glorified delivery boys.

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Crowhammer should’ve known better.

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“Five million to face down a heavily-armed, completely deranged Scarecrow and retrieve a lockbox fulla peanuts.

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Something ‘bout this don’t smell right, Daughtry.”

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“Stinks like Jorgenson’s ass.”

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“Hey!” “If the shoe fits, Jorgie.”

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Daughtry shrugged unapologetically.

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“Screw this,” Crowhammer decided.

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“We’re outta here.

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Otter—” Cough! “What?!” Crowhammer yelled,

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rounding on the helmsman in exasperation.

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“What is it now? What new and terrible—”

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Otter raised one finger, cutting him off,

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then turned to the computer beside him and scrolled through the rest of the manifest.

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“Blight. Fungus. Species failure. Blah-blah-blah. Seriously,

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Otter. Yer borin’ the crap outta me,” Crowhammer growled. Another burst of chatter, more lecturing

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and lots of pointing at the information on the screen.

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“Last known peanut plant sample anywhere in the known universe?”

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Otter nodded. “Huh. Now that’s interesting,” Crowhammer said, rubbing his chin. ‘Last

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known sample’ meant scarce and valuable.

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More valuable than the piddling five million Horatio’s buyer had offered.

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Crowhammer smiled, sensing opportunity.

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But one thing still bothered him.

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“How does the last known peanut plant sample in the whole fucking universe

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end up strapped to the ass of that psychotic death machine out there?”

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Otter scrolled back to the beginning of the record,

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pointed to something in the default fields at the top

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and then started giggling.

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“What the fuck’s gotten into you, Otter?” Otter pointed again,

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stabbing his little paw at the screen like it had all the answers, but for the life of him,

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Crowhammer couldn’t figure out what he was getting on about. “Daughtry?”

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he said and turned to his First Mate, looking for help.

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Daughtry moved over,

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brow wrinkling as he took a good long look.

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“Oh yer gonna love this,” he said, straightening up and smiling at his Captain.

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“Paperwork mix-up.”

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“The what now?” “Someone screwed up the paperwork,”

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Daughtry said, tapping at a data field on the screen.

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“Apparently you weren’t the only one who thought that case held spiders.

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Except, in this case, some paper pushing monkey thought they were Shock Transference Spiders

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—unstable plasma rounds like those Snakes and Scorpions out there.

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“Spiders. As in, munitions?” “Uh

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-huh. Marked ‘em as ammunition,

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stuck ‘em out here with this Scarecrow.

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Evidently, somewhere down the line someone discovered the mistake,

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told a friend who told a friend, and eventually it gets to your cousin Horatio.”

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“And from him to us,”

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Crowhammer said, smiling widely.

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“Galaxy’s just full of idiots, ain’t it?” “Apparently,” Daughtry shrugged.

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“So, how much?” Crowhammer asked, returning to the important business.

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“How much does the last known peanut plant in the universe go for?”

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Otter grinned and reached over,

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striking a single key.

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The record jumped all the way to the end.

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“Ho. Lee. Fuck. Trucchi!” Crowhammer called.

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Trucchi whirled around

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and raised a finger, ready to read him the riot act for getting her name wrong, only to realize that, for once,

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Crowhammer had gotten it right.

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“Sir!” she barked, bracing up like a good little soldier,

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cheeks blushing furiously.

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“Goddamn girl. Just how big is that stick in yer—?”

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“Unauthorized vessel!”

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an electronic voice screamed from every speaker on the ship.

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A voice so loud it set the klaxons ringing.

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Again. “You have entered a restricted zone!

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Surrender-surrender-surrender!”

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“Note to self,” Crowhammer said, grinding his teeth.

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“Remove all klaxons when this is over.

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Trucchi! What the fuck is that?”

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“Scarecrow, Captain.

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Tapped into the comms.”

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Trucchi frowned hard, working frantically at her keyboard.

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“It’s scanning us!” “Scanning?

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Scanning what?” “Cargo manifests, weapons compliment, food stores

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—you name it, its crawling through our systems to get it.”

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“So stop it! Jam that fucker!”

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“Surrender-surrender-surrender!”

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“Why the fuck does is it keep telling us to surrender?

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What’s it think it’s gonna do if we did?” “I don’t know!” Trucchi jabbed at buttons, working dials while that Scarecrow kept screaming, “Surrender-surrender-surrender!”

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in its annoyingly electronic squeaky-toy voice.

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“Shut the goddamn comms off!”

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“I’m trying you son-of-a-bitch! I just can’t—”

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“Surrender-surrender—”

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Blam! Blam-blam-blam!

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The Scarecrow’s voice cut off mid-sentence,

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but the klaxons kept screaming,

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until… Blam! … and the sirens

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went dead. This was the 1 of 2 parts of “Monkeyshines” by J.B. Rockwell,

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read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

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Tune in next time to find out how [Crowhammer and crew pull their ship (and butts) out of the fire,

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and if they find their way to fame and fortune or burn up in a starlight blip

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at the ass end of the universe].

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As always, you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog, or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Thank you for listening

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to The Voice of Dog.