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Tonight, Joe Monk, and his intergalactic traveling companion, Macbeth, find themselves at the receiving end of unexpected alien aggressions.
The Skinner Co. Network
208 - Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Art of War, Part 1 of 1
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 208. Tonight, we present Joe Monk, Emperor of Space, in The Art of War, Part 1 of 1. This week's episodes are brought to you by a Sunder. Twenty years after the American Civil War, former slave Marcus Riggs found himself trapped in a British harper after the invaders came to enslave all mankind. They came, they conquered, they died. Out of the ashes, new orders struggle to rule the former empires of earth, but the invaders aren't completely beaten, only biting their time. A Sunder, written and performed by John Mira, learn more at ServingWorld.com. [Music] 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 and his intergalactic traveling companion, Macbeth, find themselves at the receiving end of unexpected alien aggressions. Joe Monk, Emperor of Space, The Art of War, Part 1 of 1. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] Joe Monk, the youth who would one day be Emperor of the universe, was sitting at the main console of his ship, pleased to have been left alone at the helm for the first time, since he'd undertaken to learn to operate his long time home. With diligence, he scanned the displays before him. Watching the banks of numerical counters and trouble lights glow the steady serenity. He'd sat in his beige leather chair for eight hours, but he'd only noticed the absence of Macbeth, his tutoring companion, 30 minutes previous. The unexpected freedom had made him reluctant to leave his post, or even break his gaze from the outputs, despite the fact that his vessel required very little moment-to-moment intervention. As he considered what his friend might be up to, perhaps taking in one of the library's Esther musicals, Monk began to feel the weight and power of his responsibility. He smiled. "It's all up to me while you're off messing round." He muttered, his voice taking on a pitch he used to simulate Macbeth's chittering tone. Time passed, and the read-out stood steady. Joe grew bored. Considering his rare opportunity and unable to resist the call of the instrument panel, he decided it was an ideal opportunity for practice in evasive maneuvering. Or, at least, as evasive as his rickety ship would allow. As he attempted to override the autopilot, however, something unexpected happened. Although the light indicating his control remained red, the craft's massive Sagan drive engaged. Joe immediately threw his hands into the air to demonstrate his lack of guilt. After a moment of panic, he began to search around the room, but turned up no scapegoats. His eyes returned to the information provided from the exterior sensors, at which point the drive fired a second time as a braking measure. The override indicator was now a solid green. His history of misplaced hands, knees, and sandwiches had Joe concerned that the lurching would summon Macbeth, and he pushed himself to at least have an answer as to their location, should the alien bluster in. His concern was quickly forgotten, however, as he discovered a double column of frigates above and below his new position. He couldn't identify their place of origin, but a quick inspection of local energy discharges showed they were firing at each other with a parent figure. Now wishing Macbeth was at hand, Joe's fingers flew across the helm's broad keys. Sagan drive so eager to perform just seconds before refused to initiate. Sweat began to form on Monk's brow. His intention was merely to remove the craft from immediate danger, but even as they took on momentum, a host of dials lit crimson under the sudden attentions of the surrounding warships. The gravity compensators made the movement smooth, but Monk pictured what his flying egg must look like from the exterior, glowing with laser fire, arcing away from the plane of combat. He'd always daydreamed a lot more general shaking when fighting, but as it was his first time, he figured it must simply be another aspect overplayed by the movies he'd seen. Still, the meters clearly announced a spike in radiation levels, which was rarely a friendly gesture. The projectile launcher Macbeth had equipped a week earlier had been intended as a tool for teaching, and had given Joe multiple lectures regarding how ridiculous using slow-moving masses as weapons in the vast reaches of space truly was. It did little stop Monk from initiating the targeting system. With his left hand, he ordered the computer to auger sideways in an effort to avoid incoming fire. With his right, he began dispatching the simple, formerly educational metal spheres. His wrists moving as quickly as his brain would allow. Joe convinced the ship into postures he would have otherwise thought impossible. It was only after his ammunition had run dry and his brow was slick with concentration that he realized he'd punched holes through every attacker. Macbeth re-entered, his pincers clapping rapidly. "What are you doing?" he demanded, but his eye-stocks did not await an answer. "I beat them, we won!" Joe replied, slapping his friend across his plated shoulder joint. Then, with a long exhale, Monk understood that he may have single-handedly slaughtered thousands of beings. "Defeated them?" said the crabnoid. "You idiot! All you've defeated is three thousand years of ritualistic military tradition! Normally, this fight would have destroyed two percent of their drone fleet tops. And that, over a course of weeks! In five minutes, you've turned both sides into junk!" The Spinasians have made an art of war, prodding and poking and name-calling. "Do you know how much threatening they must have intended to do? Have you considered the cost? Those people are in a major fiscal slump, and you've crushed the financial investment and raw industrial output of hundreds of worlds. Not to mention the reality entertainment and illegal gambling you've disrupted!" "Drones?" asked Joe. "Like robots?" "Yes!" "So I didn't kill anyone?" "No!" Monk smiled. There was a long silence, as the pair inspected the field of hulks. One beaming, the other fretting. "I guess," McBeth finally said. "Your idiotic behavior may have actually given the Spinasian's stagnant economy something to rally behind. I sincerely hope that something isn't a murder squad to come hunt us down. Baa! I knock them down too!" Joe replied. With a sigh, his companion took up the helm and began dictating diplomatic apologies to the communications array. Flashpulp is presented by flashpulp.com and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skitter@skitter.fm or the voicemail line at 206-338-2792. But be aware that they may appear in a future flashcast. We'd also like to thank the Free Sound 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, please check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. ♪ Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled, here is the shadows I live with are stumbled. (upbeat music) (upbeat music)