Rocketbilly - serial space opera - Episode 3 - Bamboo Cell Blues
A Serial Saga Of Those Maverick Spacers Known As Rocketbillies And Their Moonshine-Powered Rockets
What "Rocketbilly" is about: This space opera is inspired by a dream I had where I was blasting into space on a moonshine powered rocket. Going planet to planet, living free - - as a moonshine powered Rocketbilly. Cause when you're a Rocketbilly, whether you're drinking up or blasting off, you're always powered by that same ole moonshine.
As traders, explorers, and prospectors, the Rocketbilly exists within a highly decentralize star-spanning economy where the primary consumable - moonshine - can be produced almost anywhere that you can grow fruit or sugarcane to ferment. Where there is life, there is moonshine, as the Rocketbillies say.
I am proud to debut this serial space opera, as it is written, here on our own decentralized frontier - that "space" we call Steemit! I hope you enjoy and I welcome any requests, suggestions or feedback. Steemit rocks!!
Bill
Last Week On Rocketbilly:
Jake Argo, stranded out of fuel on a primitive planet, killed a sea beast and saved the life of a royal maiden. But his actions drew the ire of a warrior prince and he was dragged away, passing out from injury and exhaustion…
Rocketbilly - Episode 3: Bamboo Cell Blues
Waking up in a bamboo jail cell is not the preferred scenario. Glancing around, there was no sign of high tech. I lay on a bamboo cot and pondered my situation. I could probably bust out of this hut, but warriors with obsidian knives and bamboo-shaft spears stood guard. I tried to communicate, but there was no sign of understanding - until the large noble-looking warrior who had apparently ordered my arrest showed up. Distinguished by a cloak of bright red and yellow feathers, he glared at me from the doorway. Again I tried to communicate, with no response. In the same even tone that I had used before, with the same slight earnest smile, I said “You don’t understand a word I’m saying. You are one ugly scum-sucking pompous piece of shit and when I get out of here I am going to kick your ass and disgrace you in front of all your people.” He stiffened, his shoulders tightening and fists clenching. Then he relaxed, smirked, and turned away. He had understood at least part of what I said. Some of them spoke Earthish after all.
The morning dragged on with no food or water offered. I thought about the day I left Earth to become a Rocketbilly. I was in a bad place that day. There had been an argument, and in a lot of ways she had been right. Mostly in her demands that I make some choices. Growing up in San Diego in the wake of the third Alien War, I had dreamed of joining the military and fighting among the stars. I’d done that. Then back in San Diego, tried to find my place there, and failed. San Diego, Earth in general, seemed different than the few years before when I’d left. More complex. The alien situation was more complex than it had seemed to me growing up. All the revelations and questions had undermined my naive childish determination to prove that no one could kick Earthlings’ butts. Yet here I was threatening to kick the ass of another off-worlder, if not exactly an alien.
She wanted us to move closer to a job she had found for me. Technical advisor or sales rep for a weapons company. Solid pay, job security, regular hours - a solid foundation for a life. Together. It wasn’t a bad plan. I didn’t exactly miss being in space. Certainly didn’t miss the rigors and rituals of military life. But part of me still clung to a child’s dreams of finding something special among the stars, some vision or vitality that seemed less a part of San Diego than ever. I still loved San Diego. I still loved her. But as the video phone rang I knew that I couldn’t pick it up. If I answered it, she would change my mind. She would show me a way that I could find the freedom I wanted on Earth without throwing it all away. Without becoming a self-chosen outcast. A dreaming, doomed drifter. One of those “Rocketbillies.”
I walked out of my apartment with the videophone still ringing. I’d contacted QuickChange and they would send some bots over later to haul out all my stuff and liquidate it, credit my account. I bought a one-man ship on advance credit and opted to take the required certification courses in Lunar orbit. The guy who sold me the ship asked what I wanted to name her. “Ship’s name?” I asked, not in the mood. “No name. Just give it a number. I’m not sentimental like that.” He had been out there but hadn’t stayed. His salesman’s smile evaporated. “If you survive out there, you will be.”
My memories were interrupted by a knock on the bamboo door. It opened and a man stepped in who I knew would speak perfect, crisp, correct Earthish. He wore the uniform of an Empyreal Ranger. It was tattered and sun-faded. Several uniform changes out of date, it would never pass a current inspection. I could guess the story behind it. That uniform had been put away when it started to fall apart. To preserve it for the day he would need to have it looking as spiffy and authoritative as possible. For the day he would wear it to impress someone. I guessed I should feel honored. But what bureacracy was there for a Fed to lord over on this rock? We eyed each other warily. It was his move. He’d dressed the part. I let him take it. After an awkward long pause, he spoke.
“Dr. Vance Hewitt, Empyreal Bio Ranger Service.” There was pride in his voice, even a little haughtiness. But it soon became clear that he lorded over no staff, no research base, and no ship. He didn’t even have an aircar. He had been dumped here decades ago to establish an Empyreal presence that had apparently withered on the vine.
Ophelia 27 had attracted some early interest as a safari planet, but Empyreal designation as a nature preserve made that traffic infrequent and furtive. Trading was allowed, but with the restrictions on exports due to nature preserve status, it hardly seemed worthwhile unless a Rocketbilly were desperate for provisions. Prospectors couldn’t file claims with the eco-designation in place. That’s why the star charts had shown it as a low-resource world. It had never really been surveyed for resources. Hewitt had been there for thirty years, making himself useful to the natives. Doing biological surveys and teaching the nobles a bit of Earthish.
But if no Empyreal nature center had been established after all this time, no permanent and regularly serviced eco-base, wouldn’t the nature preserve designation have lapsed? Wouldn’t it have reverted by now back to prospectable status, free for staking claims (if there were any to be staked)?
Again, there was an uncomfortable pause. I had my answer. Dr. Vance Hewitt had been forgotten about by his Empyre decades ago, and had not gone out of his way to remind them. The Empyreal ships he must have expected would supply and man his growing eco-base had never arrived. The nature preserve status had lapsed, and with it most likely his claim to Federal Empyre authority. Rather than hitch a ride back out with one of the traders or rogue safaris that wandered down every few years, he had gone native.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said. He turned and walked out and away from the hut. I followed him through the open bamboo door. The warrior guards stood aside, then followed us a few paces behind. We strode through a path leading toward the center of the village. Huts and buildings were constructed of bamboo with slatted or thatched roofs. Some had lava rock walls and many sat atop terraced stone foundations. Intricate carvings and handiwork adorned them, signs of an industrious and skilled people. I asked where we were going. “I’m serving as your interpreter and counsel. You’re to be tried and executed…”
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Bill
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