The Poet Monk
Another short short, this time inspired by the sci-fi chicanery of Robert Baird.
"The umber gush of flame, the silent roar of its passing. I feel no heat. I hear no sound. But I know that death is here, beckoning me closer."
"Shut up! Shut up! Shutupshutupshutup, you fucker! I am trying to save your fucking life here."
Viola gripped the steering column of her runner so tightly her claws dug against her palm. The coyote was half insensate, spouting a constant stream of invectives against her passenger as she tried to hold her craft steady. Her runner was meant for two things: fast deep space travel and slow atmospheric travel. It was not meant to go, engines white hot and deflector screaming, into the cosmic storm on the edge of a class-D nebula. Plasma skittered through the space in front of her, and only a last-second swerve kept it from slicing the runner in twain.
She would never have gone near the storm if it weren't for the pirates on her tail. She'd made a desperate gambit that they wouldn't be brave enough to follow her in. She made a lot of desperate gambits; must have been the coyote in her. But this time, the pirates were as crazy as she was and had followed her in.
"My heart sings--"
"Don't you fucking dare finish that stanza," Viola shouted over the din from her runner. She had leaned over as far as the pilot's seat would go, weight against the steering column. A glancing blow hit the rear of the ship. The squeal of the deflector grew deafening for a split second. She scrambled to hold on.
"My heart sings. For this is life. This is madness. This is life."
The coyote tried to push the monk's ranting out of her mind. It was supposed to be a simple job. A few tons of chemical catalysts going only two systems over. A single passenger for the ride, who would occupy the co-pilots seat and hopefully have sense enough to not deactivate the engines midflight. How awful could it be?
Alkussian monk awful.
An Alkussian poet monk, specifically, because poet monks kept their skills sharp by narrating their every experience as though reciting an epic poem. The only thing worse than having to deal with one in the middle of a dogfight would be dealing with one in the middle of a meal.
The coyote smiled at her joke, then had to bank hard: her momentary lapse in concentration had almost steered her right into one of the "umber gouts of flame" the poet had been harping on just a moment ago.
She glanced at the poet. He glanced back. He was a fine looking jackal. He also had the good sense not to scream at every bolt of plasma or panic and wrest the controls away from her: a good solid head on his shoulders. If he weren't constantly mumbling poetry, Viola might have asked him to share a drink with her, and maybe something more.
And then he had to ruin her thoughts by opening his mouth and beginning another line.
"Oh, bright dawn, whose light--"
"Either do something useful or so help me I will have your muzzle wired shut for the rest of the trip."
There was a moment of blessed, almost divine silence from the jackal.
Then he reached out.
Before Viola could stop him, he had flicked off the switch to the aft starboard engines... while the aft port engines were still going hot. Viola was flung to the side as her runner veered to the side, pirouetting in space like a drunken dancer. She fought the steering, but it was no good with only half her engines. She could see the pirate ship approaching with each turn. They were getting close. Too close. Without control they were going to crash.
The monk reached out again, calm, reassured, and flicked off the rest of the engines. His hands moved deftly over the controls, activating the side stabilizers and bringing them to an almost immediate halt.
There, at point blank range, the monk flicked the torpedo trigger. A bright light erupted before their eyes as the pirate ship went critical and exploded.
The monk returned his hands to a prayerful position folded over his chest. He stayed uncharacteristically quiet, eyes lowered to the ground as if in shame.
Viola was staring at him, taking deep heaving breaths. She'd met few who could handle runners like that. There who could had all been... "Dust pilots. That's what you were, before you joined the Alkussians, right?"
He gave a short nod, still looking shameful.
Viola reached over and flicked the engines on again. A thrum filled the cabin as they warmed up.
The coyote would have given her left arm to be able to pilot half as well as the dust pilots could. She was good, but he was in a whole other league entirely. Alkussians were supposed to forsake such things and speak only the great stories. Unless...
A wild idea came to her. A desperate gambit, to be sure, but then who was she to deny the coyote part of herself. "So," she said, drawing out the word until she had the monk's full attention, "you wouldn't happen to have any epic tales about your old piloting days, would you?"
The jackal's eyes lit up, and as the ship made its way out of the nebula, he began to recite.