*This is the opening chapter in Winzek’s published novel, Space Cadets and the Legend of the Goliathon.*
March 19th, 2346, A.D.
Interstellar Commercial Transit 601 rumbled through deep space like a diesel train engine along its trade route. The rumbling was, of course, only audible from inside the ship. As its thrusters reached full burn, the tall red letters of its call sign, ICT 601, flecked away from its decrepit yellow hull, crumbling off into the black abyss.
In the cluttered cockpit, the ship’s two helmsmen reclined in their bucket seats. Helmsman Paul, the much bigger, much scruffier of them threw his video game controller to the floor. “Damn it! Can we please change the difficulty?”
In the pilot seat next to him, the mousy Helmsman Phil squirmed, trying to sound casual. “If we do that, we’re gonna’ blow through half the game before we even reach the Barrier.”
“We can change it back when we find the dumb relic. I just want to get to the war,” Paul protested. “That’s why I bought this, anyway. The stuff about the Rebellion is based on actual history. I wanna’ kill some purple bloods!” He tried saying the last bit with a pirate accent, using the common Outer Rim slur for Federation citizens.
Phil frowned to himself, finding the joke distasteful. They were trying out a popular retro game – The Adventures of Nogylop Smith – a collector’s item nowadays. It was extremely rare: never released within the Federation worlds because it depicted the title character as an Outer Rim war-hero instead of history’s first blood-thirsty space pirate. And, allegedly, the whole game had been designed and programmed by other pirates as an anti-ISF propaganda piece. Phil and Paul didn’t have much in common, save their love of video games, and Paul was always hunting for the controversial stuff when they shipped out on transit runs. It was the only hobby they shared, and it was particularly exciting because Phil was never willing to venture into the unsavory sectors of Smith’s Pointe to make such purchases, but Paul was a bold ruffian. He didn’t care at all that the capital port of the Outer Rim was still crawling with outlaws to this day.
“You don’t believe the bit about the Goliathon,” he asked curiously, trying to distract Paul from changing the difficulty. If they ran out of game before they made port, they’d also run out of common ground, making for another miserable trip home.
“Nah,” Paul said, waving a phantom stink away from his nose. “That’s all just folklore – bedtime stories for kids. Nogylop was a clever bloke; I think he made up those stories to rally his troops. How else do you raise a pirate army big enough to win a war?”
“I always thought his questing days were more interesting. Any hothead can fight a war – history has proven that – but to risk your whole reputation like he did – that takes cojones.”
“You’re so gullible,” Paul shot back dismissively. He set down his controller and cracked open another can of beer. Phil followed his lead, which was unfortunate, for while doing so, neither of them noticed the green stingray insignia load on the console behind them, nor the other cockpit screens switching off one at a time. With a shuddering guffaw, Freighter 601 staggered to a dead halt, its engines failing.
“What the hell,” Paul muttered. “Phil, what’s going on?”
Phil shrugged. He had suspected that Paul wasn’t recharging the fuel cells as frequently as he ought to, but they’d had the same problem on their last shipment, and this time they had taken shifts during the recharge. Paul had probably screwed up on his shift. But Phil couldn’t say that because Paul was three times his size. Paul was a gruff, thick man, towering well over two meters tall, with arms the size of Phil’s legs: arms capable of doing quite a bit of damage to someone slight of frame. So, Phil opted to state the obvious and see how far it got him. “The ship’s dead.”
“How can she be dead?” Paul barked back, adding plaintively, “I double-checked my work: the fuel cells were charged to max before we broke orbit.”
Well, Paul hadn’t screwed up. Hopefully he didn’t think that was Phil’s motive. It was, of course, but Phil hoped Paul didn’t think it was.
Not sure what to add, Phil shrugged again. “I don’t know how it’s dead, but it is. Look!” Even the distress signal button was out; that meant the auxiliary backup was down, too. He swatted at the distress signal, drumming on it dramatically.
“Okay, okay. I’ll go check it out,” Paul’s words were tipped with venom.
“Take your tools,” Phil risked.
“Thanks, mom.” Paul loomed over Phil’s seat for a moment as he hefted his tool belt off the grated metal floor. Phil didn’t bother to look after him. He just listened as Paul observed what Phil already knew. “The auxiliary lights didn’t eve–”
He didn’t finish, his incomplete thought punctuated by a dull thud. Phil waited in the cold, dark silence, shrinking into his ratty seat cushions. “Uh… Paul?” Phil shivered but forced himself to stand up. “You okay?”
There was no reply.
Phil took two cautious steps towards the door before a figure lunged at him from the shadows, stabbing him in the neck. The pain was sharp and sweet: a dozen pinched nerves in his spine all at once. Instantly, Phil felt his knees buckle, and his body collapsed to the floor. As he choked his last breath, groping at the hole in his neck, he spotted Paul’s bloody corpse in the doorway.
His attacker stepped delicately around the murder scene, avoiding the body, avoiding the blood. Pulling up the sleeve of his ornate maroon jacket, the figure opened a channel on his WristCom. “Murray: restore emergency power.”
The man’s WristCom dinged. “Aye, Cap’n,” replied a grumbling old voice with a muddled working-class London accent.
Phil wheezed, feeling half his breath escape through the hole in his throat. It hurt to raise his head, so he let the weight of it press against the cool, grated metal floor. Damn, he thought, where did we go wrong?
“Eldadip, get the cockpit set,” his attacker said.
“Aye, sir,” a female voice replied from the shadows in the hallway, her dialect carrying those rolling vowels that suggested good Federation schooling. Phil gasped again as the Cliptorgian woman ducked into the cockpit. She was a strikingly graceful and powerful figure concealed within her weathered pirate persona. Though Cliptorgian, her complexion held pigment and her silver freckles had faded, blotching and bronzing her skin in the light of alien suns.
She tossed her crochet locs back over her shoulder and motioned to Paul’s corpse. Two hulking, shrouded figures knelt, bending the man’s lifeless body at uncomfortable angles.
“Quickly, now,” the captain said, nudging Phil with the toe of his boot. “Our trap is set.”
As the touch of the pirate’s boot-tip grew duller, Phil realized he was dying. He stared up at his killer, revealed only by the faint green light of his WristCom’s little display. The bushy golden beard and tricorn hat were unmistakable.
‘That’s irony for you: we’ve been sliced by Nogylop’s own grandson: the great Captain Alaborap himself,’ was Phil’s last contribution to consciousness as his body choked out its final gust of air.
This is the opening chapter of Winzek’s sci-fi adventure series, Space Cadets and the Legend of the Goliathon.
About the Author
Author & entertainer Brent Winzek was born and raised in the hills of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where everyone knew him as the resident Jurassic Park aficionado. He attained a Bachelor of Arts in Film Production and a Master of Arts in Theater from Bowling Green State University in Ohio before moving to New York City, where he worked in the TV & film, Broadway, Off-Broadway, and academic circles of entertainment. He continues to write & produce strange original work from deep within a forested hovel alongside his wife and critters. 
