President's Cock

Manley did not want to be found. In fact, being found would carry some horrifying consequences for him. Manley had not studied at a university but he did consider himself an exogeologist at heart. That is why he had found himself the nicest and richest asteroid in the belt to park at and wait until it all blew over. Lots of metal, lots of sensor interference.

He had felt quite safe. His ship, the President’s Cock, so named for no other reason than to piss off authoritarian patriots, sat in a crater on an asteroid with the magnificent name XO-R-58 Beta-2918-C12. The President’s Cock was a system hopper, very small for its class, which made the name all the more appropriate. Manley had been relaxing with a game of solitaire when the proximity alert rung out.

“You’re kidding me,” he said to himself. He swung his legs off the center console and turned to the nearest computer terminal. It showed an interceptor-sized ship approaching from a peculiar vector. Manley grabbed the intercom handset from above him, stretching the cable to its limits.

“Get the hell out of here,” he demanded. No reply. No doubt they were sweeping the area with a scan. He hoped the metallic rock would mask his presence. After a little while, the ship appeared to be approaching him.

“Shit,” he said. He flipped switches and punched commands into the computer at light speed. A low hum rose and turned into a whirring whine as the ship’s propulsion systems spooled up. Now he would be bright as a star on their sensors. He grabbed the handset again but before he could speak, a clean and meticulous male voice sounded from the speaker.

“Mister Manley, I presume?” it said.

“Manley is dead,” Manley said.

“That’s odd. You fit his voice profile.”

Manley grimaced and punched the console.

“Must be a mistake,” he said.

“I think not.”

“I think it is.”

“No, it’s quite accurate.”

“It’s definitely malfunctioning.”

“Mister Manley, the technology is working fine. Please prepare to be boarded.”

“You can’t board me.”

“And why is that?”

“The uh…” Manley looked around his ship, “The airlock is uh… broken.”

“That’s alright, I have some very skilled mechanics with me.”

“Of course you do.”

“Of course I do.”

“So who are you? Alliance? Consortium?”

“Does it matter? You’re wanted by everyone.”

“It matters to me.”

“You’ll find out when we come aboard.”

“You want me alive, don’t you?”

“I’ll be quite honest with you, Mister Manley, the warrant says preferably alive but I am not so particular.”

“I’m sure we could come to an understanding,” Manley said as the engines ready light blinked on.

“My understanding is that you’re about to try and flee from us,” said the voice, still meticulous and well-mannered.

“I would never do such a thing,” Manley replied with a smile as he activated his manual controls.

“You have nowhere to run,” said the voice.

“Listen, before we do this,” Manley said, “What’s your name?”

“Huh?”

“Your name, the thing people say to address you.”

“I know what a name is,” the voice said, “I am wondering why you care about mine.”

“I feel like we could build some rapport here.”

The voice chuckled, “You’re funny, Mister Manley,” it said.

“They did call me Manny the Clown on Ganymede,” said Manley.

“See, if you had stayed a clown, you would not be in this predicament.”

“I never was a clown, I’m just naturally funny.”

“If you don’t shut down your engines, you are about to be naturally dead.”

“Now now, no need for threats.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”

Manley laughed, “Did you practice that one in a mirror?”

“I practice a lot of things, Mister Manley. Speaking is not one of them.”

“You’re pretty good at it, though.”

“I had a good upbringing.”

“No doubt.”

The conversation dipped into a small pause as Manley checked the fuel injector’s mix settings. He overrode the standard mix and typed one of his own into the console before grabbing the handset again.

“What do you practice?” he asked.

“Mostly yoga,” said the voice, “I have a stressful job.”

“I hear good things about yoga.”

“It relaxes and focuses the mind, Mister Manley.”

“Why do you keep saying my name like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to sell me a vacuum pump.”

The voice paused, “I don’t know what that means,” it said finally.

“You know, the station-to-station salespeople who knock on your cabin door to talk to you about vacuum pumps?”

“No.”

“Well, you sound just like them.”

Another pause.

“The only thing I sell are the corpses of the likes of you,” the voice finally said.

“I’m sure you make your mother proud.”

“Quite.”

Manley had bought enough time. He punched the throttle to one hundred percent and groaned as the drive pushed him back into his seat at many multiples of his normal body weight. The President’s Cock rose out of the crater and sped off into the space between rocks.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the voice taunted from the speaker. Manley could not reply at this acceleration but he formulated a fitting one-liner in his head to send out when he could. This ain’t my first rodeo? Too cheesy. This is why they call me the Jackal? That would work if that was actually his nickname. Eat my space dust, bureaucrat! That was the one. Manley smiled self-satisfactorily.

He banked hard to starboard, moving his prograde vector over another asteroid. Almost immediately, the dashboard screamed collision course alerts at him.

“Don’t do our job for us, Mister Manley,” said the voice.

Manley was still at full thrust, making his arm weigh more than he could lift. Instead of replying, he stuck out his tongue in the direction of the handset. A doom counter in the middle of the dashboard counted down the distance to the asteroid. When it reached a low enough number, Manley checked his sensor screen. They were right behind him now. Perfect.

He cut his engines and pitched his ship upward until it sped towards the asteroid sideways. He watched the distance counter roll down. In the few seconds he had, he reached to the handset and spoke into it.

“Eat my space dust, bureaucrat!” he shouted before punching his throttle back up to full. The ship lurched and material stress sent creaking and cracking noises through the cabin. With his left thumb, Manley pressed a button on his control joystick. Unseen by him, a small mass jettisoned from the bottom of his ship. If he had timed it right, it would hit the asteroid just as he sped past. He watched his trajectory rise on a small screen. Just as the line turned from red to green and the collision course warnings vanished, the ship shook and shuddered violently. It had worked. The bomb had detonated on the surface of the asteroid just below him. Small chunks of debris pelted the hull as the President’s Cock sped past the space rock. The cloud of debris confused his rear sensors, so Manley kept the throttle maxed out for a few minutes before reducing it and correcting his trajectory to intercept a different part of the asteroid belt. His sensors regained a clear picture of the area of the explosion. Nothing. He immediately powered down his ship and dumped a waste heat sink in the opposite direction of travel. If they were going to chase something, it would be a wild goose. Manley’s ship, now just another metallic rock, coasted to his next hiding spot.

Manley relaxed back into his chair, strapped himself in and swung his feet up on the console. Clumsily, he fished his deck of cards out of the weightless air.

“Now where were we?”