Part 1 of 1
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Tonight Joe Monk, eventual interstellar king, finds himself fishing for a murderer.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP317 – Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: Cold Blooded Murder, Part 1 of 1
Some days, gloomy, my hours are slumberless. Dear is the shadows I live with by nonetheless. Little white flowers will never be taken in. Not where the bright coach of sorrow lands taking you. Angels have no fire ever returning you. Or they'll be angry if I so don't join in you. Welcome to FlashPul episode 317. This evening we present Joe Monk, Emperor of Space. Cold Blooded Murder, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by Shadow Publications.com. Before the written word, his children preyed upon ancient man. Its nephilim and worshipers have affected Sumer, the Indus Valley, the founding of Judaism, and even the ancient Egyptian monarchy. The legend of his children, its existence, and the warriors who fight its presence have been passed down from generation to generation. Garaga's children, ancients, the first six stories of Paul Ellerd Cooley's persec award nominated series. On April 1, 2013, own a piece of history by ordering your own signed, numbered limited edition hardcover, featuring bonus materials never before released. Please visit shadowpublications.com for more information. We don't believe in happy endings. FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to ten minutes of fiction, brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, Joe Monk, eventual interstellar king, finds himself fishing for a murderer. Joe Monk, Emperor of Space, Cold-Blooded Murder, written by J.R.D. Skinner, art narration by Poponax, and audio produced by Jessica Monk. Years before his rise to the galactic throne, Joe Monk found himself responding to an unexpected summons to the edge of Crumpf, a binary system with no planets. As an odd side effect of not being killed by the Spinesians during a recent sticky diplomatic situation, Monk had been given an extrasolar deputy ship. A title he'd considered largely ceremonial, till the grinding bleat of an incoming message had interrupted one of Macbeth's repeated attempts to teach the last human proper maintenance of their ship's engine. Joe had been pleased with the break from his crab-oid teacher's prodding claws and scrutinizing eye-stocks, at least until the view-screen filled with the barely fading from memory visage of the Spinesian ambassador who'd appointed him. The ensuing debate had ended when the alien informed them, "Whoever is the closest law, that is our way." The sudden hang-up that followed had prevented any further argument. Now Monk and his scuttling companion were aboard a Spinesian whaler, staring through the thick transparent doors that held the ship's atmosphere within the loading bay. It was the freighter's sole window, and it's only room large enough to double as a courtroom. The first maid had briefed him in the captain's quarters. A cramped closet with a folding bed and walls covered in images that Joe would have recognized his pornographic if he'd held a deeper knowledge of exotic anatomies. The skipper was murdered, sure enough, the second-in-command had told him. Hard to say who it was though, Cap was the kind of fella to make more enemies and sandwiches. Considering the motley crew, Joe could believe it. The ship's AI had provided a listing of recent complaint reports, a compilation that had required several hours just to skim through, and it had simply proven that not a being on the vessel was without reason to have killed their Spinesian commander. Had it been Goarth, a mantis-like giant who'd nearly fallen unconscious while in vacuum after rush orders had had his environmental suit's air mix accidentally replaced with that of Mylonix, a stout carbon breather? Wasn't Mylonix himself, who'd nearly been sliced in half by a cutting laser when the captain had demanded an abrupt angle change before checking that the area was clear? Both lives had only been saved by warning klaxons from the mainframe's safety systems. Worse, there were 25 shipmates, and each had a similar grievance. At least the work team of 10 that were currently in cold space could be discounted. They'd been busy meat mining when their leader's skull had had an access hatch repeatedly closed on it. With a transparent panel, the reluctant lawman eyed the glitter of energy beams as the underpaid labourers danced across the ebony skin of the moon-sized pseudo-balluga. Soon, he knew, the bay they were occupying would be filled with the shavings of pre-coderized gourmet flesh, and yet he was no nearer to a solution. As if it had anticipated his thoughts, the computer informed the gathering 15 minutes till re-entry at current harvest speed. Operations proceed at optimal levels. Macbeth, who seemed to have no interest in the fishing expedition beyond, leaned close and said, "I think it was your friend, the next in line to take the helm." Promotion is as likely a motive as the rest. Joe nodded, but he wasn't sure he agreed. And if he did, how could they prove it? "Wait," he said loudly enough to startle the assembled workers on their makeshift crepe chairs. "Using the same voice," he asked, "what are your main job priorities, computer?" There was no answer. "Call him Ishmael," suggested the first mate. "Uh, Ishmael? What are your main job priorities?" repeated monk. Ship navigation, the safety of the crew, and the collection and delivery of the galaxy's finest whale cutlets. "Yeah," continued Joe, "on that middle item. How's your accident record?" There was a pause before the machine responded. There has been one casualty, this expedition, bringing the total to five in our last trio of outings. "Would it be fair to say that your dead skipper was responsible for the first four?" There was a second silence, then a flat. "Yes." "Okay, would it also be fair to say that your dead skipper was the greatest threat here?" The system's hardwired logic couldn't avoid providing an answer. "Yes." "Hm. Ishmael, did you repeatedly attempt to close the hatch to Access Port 5 when you knew it was obstructed by the Captain's skull?" "Yes," Macbeth's claws gave three quick snaps, and Monk knew his mentor was impressed. For his own part, however, the humans simply wanted to return to the comfort of his considerably less talkative ship. Monk's discovery of the murderous mechanism, which would go on to be labeled a systembug, would later be lauded as "theoretically saving millions." Dower-faced dietitians, however, would often be quick to point out that he may have also theoretically "killed" billions more. Whatever the case, it was yet another step completed in Joe's rise to power, and the beginning of his renown as a lawman. Flashpulp is presented by Flashpulp.com and is released under the Creative Commons' attribution non-commercial 3.0 unported license. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com, but be aware that they may appear in a future flashcast. We'd also like to thank the FreeSound Project, found at freesound.org. For a full listing of effects used during the show, as well as credits for the users who provided them, check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. [Music] [Music] (music)