"Tranquility Base, the Pinafore has landed."
--Roger, Pinafore the United States Coast Guard welcomes you to Port Luna.--
"Thanks, Mike, is the Marshall in port? I got some things to discuss with him," I said from the bridge of the SS Pinafore. The dear thing was a kludge and a half, based on a relatively "small" yacht that I'd purchased from a federal auction of captured drug dealer luxuries. I'd patched the Ferrari-sized hole amidships and threw some random components into something resembling a warp-drive configuration. After a liberal coating of Handwavium, or as I preferred to call it, Dingus MacGuffin, I had a spaceworthy ship capable of "making the Kessel run in 12 parsecs".... and relative comfort.
I also had state-of-the-kludge medical facilities on board, but that would best be described later.
-- Roger, Pinafore, Marshal Dylan is in port. Do you need him to come to you? --
"Yes, please," I replied as one of my passengers approached. I turned to her. "Yes, Mister Dobbs?"
The buxom catgirl blushed and adjusted her baggy coveralls. "My wife and I would like to thank you for rescuing us from those slavers."
I grimaced. "I wish that I'd chanced on them earlier, then I could have prevented your mishap. You do know that right now Handwavium Biomods are irreversible?"
"They are?" she asked and blinked her clear blue slitted eyes. Her ears drooped in despair. "But you..."
"Mine was voluntary, and I was able to direct the process," I replied. "Can we keep that a secret? Shapeshifters tend to make the mundanes nervous."
"Hey!" Dobbs objected.
"You may as well face it, Mister Dobbs, to most of the folks on Terra, you now count as one of the Fen," I said. "And they aren't aware of what 'Doctor Moreau' in the brig was able to accomplish. Many folks won't believe that you were transformed into that against your will."
"He's right, dear," Mrs. Dobbs purred from the stairwell to the enclosed deck. She slunk onto the bridge with the grace that her husband tried to hide. The only reason I could tell her from her Husband was the fact that she actually wore an outfit that flattered her new body. "We're just going to have to..."
Captain, Buttercup chimed, interrupting Mrs. Dobbs. The airlock has cycled and a U.S. Marshal is asking permission to come aboard.
"If you'll excuse me please," I said to my passengers, "I need to deal with this." I cleared my throat and began to sing:
"Dear little Buttercup,
Sweet little Buttercup,
My favorite ship's A.I.,
Please permit Marshall D
Onto the deck, you see,
Promptly, oh Buttercup mine!"
Okay, Captain! Buttercup replied with a giggle. I love when you sing!
Marshal Everett Dylan cut an imposing figure in his 'danetech spacesuit, especially as it appeared to be one of the ones adapted from deep-sea diving. His stride was a little strained as he was apparently used to the lesser gravity of the 'danelaw parts of Luna. His eyes flashed back and forth between myself and the Dobbses.
"Which one of you," he asked in the typical NASA drawl affected by most 'dane spacers, "is the Captain?"
I smiled gently and replied. "I am the Captain of the Pinafore."
And a right good Captain, too! Buttercup chorused.
"'Tis true, by trow," I sang to her pickups, "But please, not now."
Awww! That's no fun!
The Marshal's eyes crinkled a bit. That was good, he was somewhat used to the quirks of Fenships. "Right, Lieutenant Nelson said you needed to see me?"
I straightened the cuffs on my jumpsuit. "Yes, I had to rescue these nice folks," I said, indicating the Dobbses, "and their charter pilot from the scumbag in my brig. I was too late to stop the biomods you see, but I was able to stop the brainwashing procedures before he got them into the slave markets." I glanced at the door to the decks below. "Well, I saved the Dobbses. Their pilot has suffered mental trauma and may not ever be normal again."
"The poor dear," Mrs Dobbs interjected.
"I see," the marshal said. "Evidence?"
I handed him a DVD. "From a vanilla camcorder. I also have the logs from his asteroid base in Earth-Sol Lagrange cluster four."
"Right. This appears to be in order." He removed a device from a magnetic holster at the waist of his suit and passed it over the Dobbses. He frowned slightly at the various bloops and bleeps it emitted, replaced it and pulled out a voice recorder. "Is the pilot modified the same way?"
"Approximately," I replied. "Her hair is black, rather than the blonde you see here."
"Right. With your permission Captain, I'd like to take the Dobbses' statements on board."
I quirked an eyebrow. That was unusual. Normally, the 'danelaw rep would take the victims to his base for their statements. 'Well,' I thought, 'maybe there's something going on at the base.'
"I don't think that will be a problem. Just tell Buttercup when you're done." I walked below deck and made my way to the cabin I'd put the pilot into. Her modified Checker Cab sat beside the Pearl Forrester in my vehicle bay. Hopefully, the marshal would be able to use the license plates on it to identify who she used to be.
Master's Slave sat on the bed in the cabin that New Master had led her to, and wore the jacket that he had given her. She hope that he would be pleased with the modifications she had made to it.
She strode over to the full length mirror framed in dark stained wood and critically examined herself. Her dark hair cascaded down to the small of her back in gentle waves, framing her nearly symmetrical face. Her catlike ears stood proud and alert on top of her head. She smiled at her voluptuous figure and her tail snaking out from the hole she'd cut in the back of the former jacket. It now resembled a cross between a race queen dress and a Victorian military uniform.
She knew that she'd lost several things trying to prevent Old Master from harming her litter mates... she shook her head and tried to remember why calling them her litter mates sounded wrong. She adjusted the opening at the collar of the jacket/dress until she thought Master would be pleased with her appearance. She arranged herself artfully on the bed according to her training.
She felt another pang at that, and was vaguely able to remember crafting the device Old Master had used to train her as a slave. She couldn't remembr what she had been like before Old Master had used the device to make her and her littermates. When she thought of what she had been, it became a generic humanoid figure driving a taxi.
She felt a burst of pride that she remembered her skills from before, if not how she got them. Surely New Master would find her useful! And she would prove herself to Master with all the skills she had. From her navigational and linguistic skills to the conditioning Old Master had given her, everything she had would be given to New Master.
Maybe Master would be pleased enough with her performance to give her a name! He already had given her clothes, so she knew that Master cared for her.
She smiled when she heard master's steps in the hallway and prepared herself for his arrival.
ETA: Better spellchecking.
''We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat
them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.''
-- James Nicoll
--Roger, Pinafore the United States Coast Guard welcomes you to Port Luna.--
"Thanks, Mike, is the Marshall in port? I got some things to discuss with him," I said from the bridge of the SS Pinafore. The dear thing was a kludge and a half, based on a relatively "small" yacht that I'd purchased from a federal auction of captured drug dealer luxuries. I'd patched the Ferrari-sized hole amidships and threw some random components into something resembling a warp-drive configuration. After a liberal coating of Handwavium, or as I preferred to call it, Dingus MacGuffin, I had a spaceworthy ship capable of "making the Kessel run in 12 parsecs".... and relative comfort.
I also had state-of-the-kludge medical facilities on board, but that would best be described later.
-- Roger, Pinafore, Marshal Dylan is in port. Do you need him to come to you? --
"Yes, please," I replied as one of my passengers approached. I turned to her. "Yes, Mister Dobbs?"
The buxom catgirl blushed and adjusted her baggy coveralls. "My wife and I would like to thank you for rescuing us from those slavers."
I grimaced. "I wish that I'd chanced on them earlier, then I could have prevented your mishap. You do know that right now Handwavium Biomods are irreversible?"
"They are?" she asked and blinked her clear blue slitted eyes. Her ears drooped in despair. "But you..."
"Mine was voluntary, and I was able to direct the process," I replied. "Can we keep that a secret? Shapeshifters tend to make the mundanes nervous."
"Hey!" Dobbs objected.
"You may as well face it, Mister Dobbs, to most of the folks on Terra, you now count as one of the Fen," I said. "And they aren't aware of what 'Doctor Moreau' in the brig was able to accomplish. Many folks won't believe that you were transformed into that against your will."
"He's right, dear," Mrs. Dobbs purred from the stairwell to the enclosed deck. She slunk onto the bridge with the grace that her husband tried to hide. The only reason I could tell her from her Husband was the fact that she actually wore an outfit that flattered her new body. "We're just going to have to..."
Captain, Buttercup chimed, interrupting Mrs. Dobbs. The airlock has cycled and a U.S. Marshal is asking permission to come aboard.
"If you'll excuse me please," I said to my passengers, "I need to deal with this." I cleared my throat and began to sing:
"Dear little Buttercup,
Sweet little Buttercup,
My favorite ship's A.I.,
Please permit Marshall D
Onto the deck, you see,
Promptly, oh Buttercup mine!"
Okay, Captain! Buttercup replied with a giggle. I love when you sing!
Marshal Everett Dylan cut an imposing figure in his 'danetech spacesuit, especially as it appeared to be one of the ones adapted from deep-sea diving. His stride was a little strained as he was apparently used to the lesser gravity of the 'danelaw parts of Luna. His eyes flashed back and forth between myself and the Dobbses.
"Which one of you," he asked in the typical NASA drawl affected by most 'dane spacers, "is the Captain?"
I smiled gently and replied. "I am the Captain of the Pinafore."
And a right good Captain, too! Buttercup chorused.
"'Tis true, by trow," I sang to her pickups, "But please, not now."
Awww! That's no fun!
The Marshal's eyes crinkled a bit. That was good, he was somewhat used to the quirks of Fenships. "Right, Lieutenant Nelson said you needed to see me?"
I straightened the cuffs on my jumpsuit. "Yes, I had to rescue these nice folks," I said, indicating the Dobbses, "and their charter pilot from the scumbag in my brig. I was too late to stop the biomods you see, but I was able to stop the brainwashing procedures before he got them into the slave markets." I glanced at the door to the decks below. "Well, I saved the Dobbses. Their pilot has suffered mental trauma and may not ever be normal again."
"The poor dear," Mrs Dobbs interjected.
"I see," the marshal said. "Evidence?"
I handed him a DVD. "From a vanilla camcorder. I also have the logs from his asteroid base in Earth-Sol Lagrange cluster four."
"Right. This appears to be in order." He removed a device from a magnetic holster at the waist of his suit and passed it over the Dobbses. He frowned slightly at the various bloops and bleeps it emitted, replaced it and pulled out a voice recorder. "Is the pilot modified the same way?"
"Approximately," I replied. "Her hair is black, rather than the blonde you see here."
"Right. With your permission Captain, I'd like to take the Dobbses' statements on board."
I quirked an eyebrow. That was unusual. Normally, the 'danelaw rep would take the victims to his base for their statements. 'Well,' I thought, 'maybe there's something going on at the base.'
"I don't think that will be a problem. Just tell Buttercup when you're done." I walked below deck and made my way to the cabin I'd put the pilot into. Her modified Checker Cab sat beside the Pearl Forrester in my vehicle bay. Hopefully, the marshal would be able to use the license plates on it to identify who she used to be.
Master's Slave sat on the bed in the cabin that New Master had led her to, and wore the jacket that he had given her. She hope that he would be pleased with the modifications she had made to it.
She strode over to the full length mirror framed in dark stained wood and critically examined herself. Her dark hair cascaded down to the small of her back in gentle waves, framing her nearly symmetrical face. Her catlike ears stood proud and alert on top of her head. She smiled at her voluptuous figure and her tail snaking out from the hole she'd cut in the back of the former jacket. It now resembled a cross between a race queen dress and a Victorian military uniform.
She knew that she'd lost several things trying to prevent Old Master from harming her litter mates... she shook her head and tried to remember why calling them her litter mates sounded wrong. She adjusted the opening at the collar of the jacket/dress until she thought Master would be pleased with her appearance. She arranged herself artfully on the bed according to her training.
She felt another pang at that, and was vaguely able to remember crafting the device Old Master had used to train her as a slave. She couldn't remembr what she had been like before Old Master had used the device to make her and her littermates. When she thought of what she had been, it became a generic humanoid figure driving a taxi.
She felt a burst of pride that she remembered her skills from before, if not how she got them. Surely New Master would find her useful! And she would prove herself to Master with all the skills she had. From her navigational and linguistic skills to the conditioning Old Master had given her, everything she had would be given to New Master.
Maybe Master would be pleased enough with her performance to give her a name! He already had given her clothes, so she knew that Master cared for her.
She smiled when she heard master's steps in the hallway and prepared herself for his arrival.
ETA: Better spellchecking.
''We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat
them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.''
-- James Nicoll
