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Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

The Privateer Stories

by overmortal

IMPORTANT NOTE: This is a piece of a longer writing project. You can view the entire project here: The Privateer Stories

The following is a piece of writing submitted by overmortal on August 4, 2008
"This is, chronologically, the first Privateer story. This one was written by my co-author, David Dixon, and is narrated by the turret gunner, Snake.

Even as teenagers, David was a far more comfortable writer than myself, and he and I both suspect that Snake is also a far better storyteller than the Boss.

Something I have found fascinating is that, while the characters are based loosely on David and myself, the tellers give away distinctly how they perceive themselves and each other. This was not something David and I did intentionally. As we wrote stories upon stories, the characters revealed more of themselves to us, and, in truth, it came to a point where we weren't writing stories at all, but rather simply deciding what situations to pit the two against and watch how they reacted. There have been times in which "my" character, the Boss, has done things that have surprised even me, and are things that I wouldn't have done in that situation. This aspect of storytelling fascinates me to no end.

It's also worth mentioning again that it's unwise to believe that either character is telling events exactly as they happened. As with any tale, it will be based solely upon the memories and biases of the teller. If this story were to be told from the Boss's perspective, it would certainly have the same general events, but the Boss would all but surely remember small details differently. He leave out things that Snake remembered, or remember things that Snake forgot.

This is the first Privateer story that David wrote. It's far superior, in my opinion, to my first story. "

"Snake's Story"

The PRIVATEER Stories
"Snake's Story"
by David Dixon

I yawned. This was becoming very, very boring. I was sitting down at one of the many tables at the "Third Star Bar," a cheap and disreputable establishment on Dunatis, close to Phonos E, and scanning through the "Help Wanted" section of the Dunatis Chronicle. Staring at the screen on my wrist computer was making my eyes tired and my head hurt.

Perhaps that was what caused me to take one of the ads seriously. It read like this:

Excellent pilot, Excellent ship.
Ball turret gunner requested. Pays well.
All interested parties should meet me at table four, at the Third Star Bar at 1900.

Any other time I would have snorted, chuckled, and moved on, but on that day something possesed me to check it out.

I glanced at my watch: 1855. I shrugged my shoulders and looked around for table four. It was over in the corner, unoccupied. I stood up, left a credit on the table and walked over. Seeing that no one else was even remotely interested in the table I sat down and sprawled out in the booth.

I had been sitting there a few minutes when a tall, grizzled man covered in dirt strode up. He looked as if he hadn't shaved in days and his breath stank. I started to say something, but after a while in my line of work you start to realize it's best to keep your mouth shut.

"You the one that advertised?" the man asked callously.
"Yeah . . ." I answered, just to see what would happen.
"I'll work for ya', no matter what the pay, alright?" he interrrupted.

No unshaved, drunken, stinking, bum was going to get my job. "Tough," I said, shrugging my shoulders, "I've already got who I need. Maybe next time."

He muttered something foul under his breath and slunk away. Oh, well.

I sat there a few more minutes and checked my watch: 1912. This guy had better show up, I thought.

As I was thinking that, someone else walked up and stood in front of the table. I quickly evaluated him. He was wearing that traditional privateer/pirate outfit so popular in the movies: fake leather jacket, dirty shirt, and what at one time were jet black pants. He had one of those rediculous looking implanted watches in his wrist, the remnants of a fad that had swept the Outer Rim a few years back.

He stood with an air of authority, although over what, I wasn't sure. I just looked at him, once again waiting for someone else besides me to say something. He did the same thing. Cool customer, I thought.

To break the silence, I decided to make the first move: I raised my eybrows, as if asking a question.

At first he just stared but then his eyes narrowed. Small alarms begin ringing in my head; I stupidly ignored them.

"Are you the guy trying to hire a gunner?" he said suspiciously. The alarms were getting louder, like a missile lock tone.

I once again resolved that no one was going to get my job, not even this tough sounding pirate wanna-be. "Yeah, I am, what's it to ya'?" I responded just as suspiciously.

"What do you fly?" he asked.

Uh-oh, think quick. "Filian C-9," I answered, sounding more sure than I felt. This wasn't going good at all. "It doesn't matter anyway," I began, "I've already got the guy I-"

"What!?" he roared, "I'm the one who paid to advertise, you scum, and you pretended you were me!? I outta' shoot you!

"If you've taken my gunner, you bag of-" This was really not going well. I'd met people who would shoot people over something like this. I decided to end the conversation.

In one swift motion, I jumped up, grabbed my E14 Combat Knife from its sheath in the small of my back and extended it to his neck.

At least, that's what was supposed to happen. In reality, he saw it coming, jumped back and pulled an old style matter propulsion pistol from his side holster. Idiot! my mind screamed, why didn't you pay attention to the fact that he had a holster?

"Ahhhh!" he yelled, not moving his pistol. "First you take my place in the advertisement I paid for, and now you threaten me? What's going on?!

"Drop the knife, you piece of space junk!" he warned.

I looked around for some help. The bartender was the only one even looking; he looked as if he could care about as much if he knew an ant was going to die. Hey, I said the place was cheap and disreputable.

"Drop it!" the privateer/pirate said again, this time it was a threat. There was little I could do: I was a good five steps behind a table away from him; I had a knife and he had a gun.

My knife clattered to the floor. "All right, all right," I began, trying to untangle myself from what was rapidly becoming a very, very bad situation.

"No, it's not all right, punk-" he began.

"Punk?!" I cried, for a moment forgetting that the man who I was talking to had a gun on me, "I'm not the one walking around in clothes like I'm an extra from Jupiter's Warriors and pulling guns on everyone.

"Punk?! I'm not walking around with a watch stuck in my wrist!" When I commented on his watch he seemed to scowl in an embarrased sort of way.

He raised the gun to my forehead. I suddenly remembered that he was the one holding all the chips. Oops, Dummie, I thought, annoyed at myself.

"Yeah, punk," the man said, emphasizing 'punk', "you pulled a knife on me first, if you remember, and you're walking around pretending you're me!"

"Look," I said, talking quickly, "I can explain. I actually don't fly a ship, and I actually came here looking for a job." The man's expression turned from one of rage to one of amused interest.

"I just didn't want anyone else getting the job, so I pretended I was you. When you walked up, I was going to be the only one applying, so you'd have to hire me. See?" I queried.

He looked me over again. "Brilliant plan, Doctor, Just one question: how were you supposed to know when 'you' was going to get here?" he asked sarcastically. "You must not have thought that one out, or else this wouldn't be happening."

For the first time since we'd met, I couldn't think of anything to say.

"Anyway," I continued, "you're late, and I'm the only one here, so it looks like you've got to hire me-"

He laughed; it was good to hear him laugh but not so good to watch as his gun jiggled up and down with his laughter.

"And since you've got to hire me, would you get that blasted gun out of my face?" I asked as good naturedly as was possible.

He holstered his gun and sat down. I picked up my knife and sat down also, ignoring the triumphant smile on his face.

"What makes me want to hire you, anyway, Mr . . ." he asked, leaning across the table at me.

"Snake," I said, "everyone calls me Snake."

"Aside from the fact that you've shown yourself to be of excellent moral fiber," he continued. The last line was quite sarcastic.

"Well," I said, brushing past his barb, "aside from that, I'm not scared of danger . . . umm . . . I'm a halfway decent mechanic, a crack shot, and most significantly, I need a job." "If you're such a crack shot and mechanic, why don't you already have a job?" he countered.

"The same reason that with your excellent piloting skills, awsome ship, and large amounts of money to pay a turret gunner, need a turret gunner."

It was his turn to not say anything.

"I'll admit, Snake," he said awkwardly, "I kinda' lied a bit on the ad."

"Really," I asked sardonically, "It had better not be about the pay, your piloting, or your ship."

"What else is there to lie about, then?" he asked frustratedly.
"Good point," I admitted.
"Listen, I'll pay you 1,200 credits for this one mission I've got-" he offered.

"Are you crazy?" I asked, "I'm not talking single missions, I'm talking partnership here. Flying single missions is too dangerous; no incentive to bring back the gunner or hire him again.

"Partners; 60/40 split." I finished.

The man snorted. "I didn't ask for partners, I asked for a gunner-"

"Well," I countered, my anger rising, "I'm all you've got and I say-"

"Who's doing the negotiating, me or you?" the prospect boss asked, his voice getting louder.

"Well, Mr. I-kinda-lied-about-the-ad, I don't see a ton of gunners lining up to work with you, so you figure it out," I practically yelled, punching a finger in his chest.

"I ought to-" he spat, his face becoming red.
"Hire me," I cut in defiantly.

Despite his best efforts, his face broke into a smile. "Snake, you know, I really shouldn't trust you; but I'll hire you. Partners; 70/30 split."

"Renegotiable in a couple of months?" I asked suspiciously. I had a feeling I was forgetting something, but I couldn't remember what it was.

"Yeah, I guess so," he conceded reluctantly.
"If it helps you out any," I said shrugging my shoulder, "you're just the kind of person my mom told me to stay away from."

"A lot of good she did," he muttered, "you're a virtual saint."

"Hey," I returned, "at least I don't lie about business proposals to perfect strangers."

"Yeah, but you do pretend you're somebody else and pull knives on perfect strangers."

"I have a good reason," I said, trying to surpress a smile.

"What's that?" he asked in disbelief.

"My mom told me to stay away from people like you," was my answer. I smirked. He rolled his eyes and smiled.

I suddenly remembered what it was that I had forgotten when settling our busines proposal: "Let's see that 'excellent ship,' of yours."

He didn't say anything but nodded his head reluctantly. Uh oh.

We walked out of the "The Third Star Bar" towards the ship docking area. I suspected something was amiss when he led me past rows and rows of Hawks,

Kunoon 12s, Tamil 660s and other ideal craft. We soon walked down further to the cheapest docking spaces of all: Docking Area Z-9, Deck 1.

There in that docking bay, I got my first look at the ship that was destined to be my new home in a matter of speaking: somehow I knew, unfortunately, which one was his as soon as I saw it.

It was ugly, scarred, paintless, beaten, and looked overall like a flying deathtrap. I searched my memory for what type of ship it was; I drew a blank.

We stopped right in front of it.

"Here it is," he said, sounding more proud than he looked, and jesturing with his hands towards the ship.

"Oooohhh," I said in mock wonder. "I guess I know what you were lying about in the ad, aside from the pay."

"Hey," he protested, "you accepted the offer, I sure wasn't twisting your arm for you to take it."

"Fine, fine. Just one little tiny question: what in the universe is it?" I replied, also jesturing at the ship.

"A Black Sun 490," he replied, once again sounding surer than he looked.

"Oh," I said, remembering something I'd read. "That ship that they sell for about ten credits these days?"

"Hey," he argued as he crossed his arms, "the Black Sun's a good ship-"

"About five years ago," I interrupted. He shrugged his shoulders as if he could care less. Like many pilots, this one disliked people making fun of his ship, I could tell.

"You want a look at the turret?" he asked. I nodded, still taking it all in.

We climbed aboard, squeezing in the tiny hatch and then up into the cockpit. The cockpit was dirty, just like the rest of the ship, but was spacious enough. It was a remarkabely well laid out ship, suprisingly enough, with good cargo space, maintainance accesses, and, what I was most concerned about, a good sized turret, as turrets go.

The turret "hole" was located just behind the acceleration couch. It looked like it was originally there, which was good; it's not very comforting to climb into a turret that someone has just taken upon themselves to weld together. I was beginning to feel better about the whole thing.

Better until I actually climbed inside the turret. The first thing I saw as I sat down in the ripped false leather chair was a single laser in the dead center of the turret surrounded by four dirt-covered, scratched and scarred VDU's. That one laser was not originally installed, I could tell, because it was held to the turret face by "flexi-weld" and "vacuum tape."

Then I noticed the type of laser. It was a RWF-IF7, just one step above a flashlight, no, not even that, make it a very powerful flashlight. I reached out and grabbed its handle. A piece of the "vacuum tape" fell off into the floor and I could see light coming in through the hole in the turret. I looked up at him with a "you-must-be- crazy" look.

"What?" he asked shrugging. I held the look. "Ok, ok," he conceded, spreading his arms, "it needs a little work-"

"How'd your last gunner die? Did he fall out through the gaping hole?" I asked sarcastically, sticking my finger through the hole inbetween the turret face and gun.

"He quit. And that's never happened before, never," was his reply.

"There is no way, and I mean no way, that I'm gonna' get down in a turret and use a gun that's held on the to the ship by a bunch of freakin' tape!" I said, shaking my head in disgust at the overall situation.

"Look," he offered, "we'll put up some money and get it fixed: I'm sure somebody can do it cheap."

"Maybe," I agreed reluctantly, "what about that gun? That thing's an RWF-IF7-"

"Yeah, so?" he interrupted, "I heard it was good gun. I spent 1,500 for that gun."

"Who told you that?" I asked increduously, "This gun is a piece of junk. I've seen candles that are more powerful-"

"Shut up! Just shut up!" he practically exploded, "you are working with me now so there's no use complaining. I can't help it you're ungrateful, but you've already signed on.

"Tell me what it is your Highness requires and I'll see about it, but all I'll promise is to fix the turret."

"Fine, fine," I mumbled, "a new gun would be nice. If those VDU's don't work, they need to be replaced."

"They work," he assured me sullenly. "I-we-have a mission we've got to run tomorrow, so I'll go and get the turret fixed. In the meantime, load your stuff aboard."

He started to walk away but turned around, "And hurry up about it, will ya', we've got some work to do aboard."

Yeah, no kidding, I thought, scowling under his rebuke.

I got back to my room just above the Third Star Bar and loaded all my clothes into my ugly, dirty, green duffel bag. Just to spite my new employer, I laid down on my rock-hard bed and took a nap.

I awoke several hours later: it was dark outside now, as Dunatis's sun had set. I got up, yawned, grabbed my duffel bag, and left, not bothering to pay on my way out. The room wasn't worth paying for.

I arrived back at the ship and noticed that he was inside, the engines already fired up. Intrigued, I climbed aboard.

"Glad you could make it, Snake," was his greeting; actually it sounded as if he felt exactly the opposite. Oh, well.

"Yeah," I muttered in excuse, "I got . . . um, caught up."
"Mmm-hmmm," he said nodding. "Anyway, while you were getting caught up, I got the turret fixed, uploaded some new software and set the turret calibrations."

"Why are the engines fired up?" I asked, not bothering to thank him for what was probably three hours worth of work.
"We've got to leave early. The guy who hired me wants it done ASAP."

"Looks like he hired one to me," I said with a smirk.
"So did I," was his quick reply. My smirk was gone. "Now, get ready, 'cause we're leaving." With that, we were off.

I found, about thirty minutes later, that our mission was to take out a pair of pirate craft that sometimes inhabited a nearby jump point. I was down in my turret doing my calibrations which he had said he'd done earlier, when the action started.

"Two hostile CF-11s at three o'clock low!" came his yell.
"Tell 'em to wait 'till I get done calibrating this turret. I thought you said you calibrated this thing!"

"I did," he said, "what's wrong with it?"
"Oh not much, except for when I try to turn left I get whiplash, and when I turn right I get next to nothing," I replied.
"Picky, picky," was his reply.

According to my radar, they were about three thousand klicks out and it still wouldn't give me a good lock or scan. I couldn't even bracket them for target identification. Even so, I spun my turret around to face them.

He turned the ship in a radical right even as I was getting ready to let them have a mouthful of laser fire. I was now getting ready to give Phonos E, millions of klicks out, a mouthful of laser fire.

"How about telling me before you do that, will ya'?" I yelled.
"Sure," he yelled back.

The ship begin to shake as lasers buffeted our forward shields. I once again spun around to face the pirates. Finally I was able to bracket one. Above me and slightly forward, I could here the front laser capacitors firing, cooling, and firing again.

The enemy craft broke off and split up. One pulled up high out of my field of vision and the other bored straight in.

"Gotcha," I whispered as I bracketed him and then fired. The laser vibrated with each split second burst as crimson bolts flashed out. I saw several impact against his front shields. According to my "Target ID" VDU, they were now 89%. Now he was firing. His shots were green, indicating vastly surperior Zeon19's. What I wouldn't give for some ot those, I thought. As I was pondering that, a couple of his shots hit our shields right in front of me.

I flinched involutarily as they bored steadily in. Even so, we continued towards him. I punched a button on my lower left VDU console. According to it, our shields were at 20%.

"Hey, Boss," I screamed in semi-panic, "get out of his way, unless you want a dead gunner; our shields are at 20%!"

"I know that," he screamed back in total panic, "my controls are stuck!"

I swore. The enemy was getting closer; his shots were too. I pointed my gun at him and gave him several long bursts in the nose. His shields were now at 50%.

"How's that feel, sucker?!" I yelled at him in my excitement.

The pirate blazed by close enough for our shields to scrape and I tracked him all the way. My shots reached out and struck him right on the nose again. Evidently, his shields were weakened by his little brush with us, because as my shots collided with his ship I excitedly watched several black scorch marks appear in his dimond shaped cockpit area.

My boss's, or should I say, our, Black Sun 490 shook again. I rotated the turret around so that I was facing our ten o'clock and saw why. The other pirate flown CF-11 was giving it to us in the front. Once again, all the shots seemed to be aimed at me, the poor little turret gunner. Our shields have to be pretty weak, I thought, not having time to check because I was to busy aiming at him.

I jumped as a shot ripped open some metal on the bottom of the hull right in front of my turret. Yep. I fired at him, missing him as he weaved. I swore again.

"Got those controls fixed yet, ace?!" I called, still firing and missing.

"Not yet!" I heard him say, somehow even above my laser's capicitors. Another shot hit us and my top right VDU flickered and went out. I heard him swear, this time.

"Get those guys off of us!" he yelled, "Unless you want to die!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying," I said as I tracked and continued firing on the closest pirate. I finally hit him and he broke off from his run. That was no relief, however, because it was his buddy's turn. At least I had done some damage to him earlier, though.

He came up from our six o'clock and I noticed that his shields weren't coming up past 75%, probably as a result of the hits I'd given him. Either that or he was in a ship that ran like ours. I fired at him repeatedly, hitting him again. He flew straight under me and I lost him, not being able to turn fast enough.

"Where is he?!" I called up to my employer.

"Dead ahead and I've got the punk!" he yelled back. No sooner had he spoke, than the ship shuddered slightly and I was treated to a wonderful view of sparks and smoke as a missile left our forward launcher.

I couldn't see where it had gone, but it obviously hit becasue I heard a long "Yessssss!" from above me.

As I was spinning around to face the other pirate I posed a question: "Why in the world didn't you use that before?!"

"Targeting was out," he replied.
"Figures," I muttered, still firing. "Is that guy you hit with a missile dead yet?"
"No," he answered, "his controls are just out."

"Boy," I said sardonically, "I'd hate to be him." For the first time in the fight, one of us laughed. "Even so," I complained, "I can't hit him, because our controls are out too, and I can't bloody see him!"

"Not my fault, Snake," he called back. Our shields were now at a whopping 43%.

The other pirate was lining up on us and taking advantage of our inability to manuever by coming at us from above. I couldn't see him, much less shoot him. I watched as our shields began marching back downward.

Our ship was hit again and all my other VDU's went out. Just as I was about to curse the ship, guns, pirates, computer, calibrations, pilot, sun, space and anything else I could think of, we turned.

"The controls are back on line!" he yelled joyously.
"Great. Now point me where I can see the enemy, fool!" I yelled.
"Roger!" he responded.

Our pirate friend was evidently quite surprised that we were, in fact, able to do something but be a target because he didn't change course till it was almost too late. We narrowly missed each other, flying so close that I think I could read his name painted below his canopy. His shields were stronger at the moment than ours, so we went spinning away. As we tried to regain control, I noticed the disabled enemy craft to our six.

I turned and fired. Evidently, his shields were out as well as his controls becasue each one of my shots turned into a fountain of sparks as they hit. Finally one broke through, releasing the flammible oxygen. The next shot ignited it, turning the ship into a flaming torch for a brief moment. Then the fuel caught on fire and it exploded into shards, sending glowing pieces of metal cascading off our shields.

"Boooooommm!" I yelled in exultation. "Where is that other pirate punk, Boss?" I asked, now ready to take him on.

"He just jumped out, the coward," my boss answered in disgust. "Shoot. Now we only get half of the money." He swore, and I joined in.
"Just jump after him, why don't we?" I queried.

"Are you crazy?!" he asked, "On the other side of that jump is an uncleared aseroid belt; we'd be asking to die. Our controls have already gone out once, I don't want to have that happen near a bunch of rocks the size of your ego-"

"Yeah, yeah," I replied good naturedly. "Like I said, you're the one who goes around like a Jupiter's Warriors extra-"

"What is it with you and 'Jupiter's Warriors' extras, anyway?" he asked.

Great job, bozo, I thought. "Ummmmm . . ." I answered uncomfortably, "I'd rather not talk about it . . ."

"I'll bet you were an extra for 'Jupiter's Warriors' weren't you?" he asked as if he'd just thought of something.

"Shut up."

"Heeeeyyyy," he began, "you were an extra in Jupiter's Warriors!" His laughter filled the ship. "Maybe you shouldn't be 'Snake' but, 'Man-Who-Stars-In-Cheesy- Movies!" He guffawed. I started to laugh despite myself.

I stood up out of the turret, quietly grabbed my duffel bag and threw it at him. It missed, instead hitting his toolbox and knocking it over.

I sank back down into the turret to sulk. I heard something scrape along the metal floor towards me and looked up. A white handled wrench hit me in the nose.

"Owwwwww!" I screamed in surprise and pain. He merely laughed again and again, both at me being an extra in 'Jupiter's Warriors' and his hitting me with the wrench. On our way back to Dunatis, I sat in my turret and plotted my revenge.

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