<![CDATA[Honest Tommy - Flashtales]]>Tue, 13 Nov 2018 11:33:53 +0000Weebly<![CDATA[Remembrance]]>Sun, 12 Nov 2017 13:48:24 GMThttp://honesttommy.weebly.com/flashtales/remembranceFather and daughter pay their respects to the last heroes of the British Empire.

by Tom Menary
Silence was not a natural state of existence for General Broadchest. He was at his most contented while roaring orders from the rudder of an ironclad blazer wagon, encircled by the thunder of war.
            Today, although surrounded still by that same thunder, he was observing silence. Only the sound of his bootfalls rang through the marble corridors, underscored by the flatter, softer padding of his daughter beside him.
            The Royal Cosmonautical Museum was a place of silence. It was probably the closest thing General Broadchest would get to a religious experience. Its arched halls and multifarious antechambers were cloisters of solitude, where visitors shuffled from one ancient exhibit to the next in solemn reverence. If he ever set foot in a church, he imagined it would sound a lot like this.
            In other words, it was dull as dishwater, but necessary. Tradition dictated it.
            Several of the museum's visitors stopped as he strode by, some backing up against walls and plinths, a couple even favouring him with respectful salutes which, if not exactly up to Army regulation, were at least enthusiastically performed. He returned them crisply, and marched on with Gwendoline at his side.
            All of this bored her as much as it bored him, but he was damned if she was going to grow up ignorant of history. Too many of the new recruits hadn't the faintest idea about Bodring or the Charge of the 42nd, and Broadchest was sure to pack the idiotic little sods off to the most remote Crown dependency he could think of. If ever she was going to follow in his footsteps—and by God he'd do everything to ensure she did—then she needed the full weight of history to be impressed upon her shoulders.
            Hence coming here, to the Stone. The grand memorial standing out in the courtyard was still smooth and relatively free of blemishes and the weathering of time, and with any luck it would stand tall even if London collapsed around their ears.
            After all, it was all that was left of the last great heroes of the British Empire.
            The Jupiter Wars were ancient history now; the Broadwing lashed to the ceiling in the main atrium was caked in dust and solomite, and the museum wasn't half as busy as it had been in Broadchest's day. The Empire was expanding further from its own beating heart, and ignorance was expanding with it.
            The old general sighed heavily. Gwendoline glanced a frown up at him. "Are you bored?" she asked.
            Too smart for her own good, that was her problem. "I'm reminiscing. You should do the same," he advised.
            "I don't have anything to reminisce about."
            "Remember," he said firmly. "Remember their sacrifice."
            The memorial was undoubtedly a fine work of craftsmanship; it had taken the artisans a good two years to complete the sculpture, particularly because the powers-that-be demanded it was hewn from Corvanite corundum, taken from the black depths of the Vas Corvanus, and could only be chipped away by star-iron cutters. Now it stood as monument to the Corvanite defeat by the brave souls of Britain.
            Gwendoline crossed her arms, and scrutinised the sculpture in the way she scrutinised everything. "Don't you say sacrifice is meaningless for anything less than an absolute cause?"
            He turned to her, surprised she'd remembered the lesson but irritated she'd chosen to bring it up now. "It was total war."
            "The Corvanites aren't dead," she said simply.
            Which was true; the Battle of Bodring Quasar had secured victory for the allied forces, but it was almost pyrrhic in the devastation wreaked upon the Realm. Further, while the Corvanite horde was shattered at the last gasp, the war cabinet decided not to pursue the few warlords who slipped from Britain's grasp, and the enemy homeworld was left untouched.
            Broadchest had long believed that had been a mistake.
            To his daughter, he simply made a non-committal grunt and clapped her on the shoulder, drawing her closer as he directed her gaze up at the corundum edifice. "We're privileged enough to have that debate now because of what they did then," he said softly. Softness was not a natural state for him either, but there were times when it was necessary. Gwendoline was growing into a demeanour as hard as his own and he wondered, not for the first time, if she could have benefited from more softness in her life. "We have a duty to uphold their legacy. Our name carries weight," he reminded her.
            Gwendoline said nothing to that, and continued to gaze at the Stone, her eyes tracing the sculpture lines as if she was puzzling out a maze. Broadchest was content to let her have her space, and turned his own gaze to the depiction of the great heroes of the Jupiter Wars. They deserved to have their names shouted from the rooftops instead of muffled by the all-pervading silence of an empty exhibition. Their names should have been written in blazing trails across the Fifteen Galaxies.
            In the private museum of his mind, General Broadchest vowed that, so long as he had anything to say about it, they would not be forgotten.
<![CDATA[Evacuation in the Void]]>Wed, 11 Oct 2017 12:07:37 GMThttp://honesttommy.weebly.com/flashtales/evacuation-in-the-voidA hyperplane pilot has a rare opportunity on a frozen planetesimal as he comes face-to-face with a living legend.

"Evacuation in the Void"
by Tom Menary
I fought the controls of the dying hyperplane all the way down to the frozen planetesimal, but it was my esteemed passenger who saved our lives.
            At the last second, as the craggy, icy waste came rushing up, he barrelled into me from the back seat with all the force of a cannonball, knocking the wind out of me and punching us up through the canopy. We hit the ice as our 'plane skidded hard off the lip and pitched into the swirling black fathom below.
            I lay there for several moments, gulping heavily through my Breatho-Walkabout, then rolled over to find my passenger tugging off his own helmet, a deep crack in the visor, and gasping for breath. Immediately I began yanking out my suit's tubing to wave in his face in a desperate attempt to give him air, but he held me off with an upraised hand. "Don't be soft, lad. You need that contraption more than I do. I wager my lungs are a damn sight bigger than yours."
            And that's how I ended up marooned in the depths of space on a tiny speck of ice in the company of the great Ironjaw, later Admiral of the Royal Space Navy and a hero of space and fable. Back then, I'd swooped in to evacuate him from a campaign that turned south, but the savages brought our ship down before we could make hyperspace.
            The planetesimals stretched away in a pearlescent chain towards the system's blue dwarf star, hanging over the endless void. My colleague seemed perfectly at home, and settled down to unpack his satchel and ration tin for inventory.
            That's when the cybernetic polar bear attacked. The blasted thing came bounding across the gap between the closest neighbour and our little icy island, all metal fangs and claws. I yelled and threw up my arms, but Ironjaw simply planted his boots and stared the mechanical monster down. With a great cry of "Hyyarrr!" the mountainous man drew back his arm and punched the bear firmly on its nose the instant its paws hit ice. The thing gave a buzzing yelp as its snout concertinaed up like a crushed can of beans, and it yomped away to the next ice rock in the chain to lope about in confusion.
            "Best way to deal with those tin bastards," he said, and bent to retrieve his satchel. The great man clutched his gut in some discomfort. "Give me a minute would you, lad?"
            I gave him as much space as I could on that frozen spit of dirt. I know how privileged I was at sharing a tiny world with Ironjaw himself; he was mountainous not only in stature but in legend, and men would have killed for a chance to hear his tales and receive his wisdom. I waited with bated breath to discover what the great war hero might have to say.
            Indeed he seemed more thoughtful than I'd ever seen him, and cast his gaze around the tiny planetesimal as if taking its measure. "First thing when you find yourself marooned in the big blackness," he said, turning his bushy-bearded face to me and rubbing his grumbling belly, "find the best place to let yer guard down."
            He strode across to the frozen lip of the spaceberg and began unbuttoning his trousers. "That gubunga sirloin went right through me," he bellowed. "I don't know about you, but I'm dying for a shit."
            With that, Ironjaw shoved his britches down, bent over on the ragged edge of space, and stuck his arse out over infinity.
<![CDATA[Supper]]>Sun, 24 Sep 2017 13:48:51 GMThttp://honesttommy.weebly.com/flashtales/supperA dockyard intendant inspects the infamous ship at the end of the dock, and encounters more than he bargained for in the form of a pair of madwomen, a monkey, and an invitation to supper.

by Tom Menary
They said the ship at the end of the dock was haunted. How long the dilapidated spacecraft had been there, nobody was quite sure; the clerk's records were somewhat fuzzy when it came to the last berth in the Royal Space Docks, and she seemed altogether reluctant to amend them.
            Godfrey Frohock, Second Intendant to the Admiral-Superintendant of the Dockyard, decided it was high time the irregular vessel was accounted for. Tucking his clipboard under his arm, he strode the length of the harbour, marching past the gleaming cruisers and battleships of the Royal Fleet, to the misshapen contraption squatting at the far end.
            The thing was a ghastly amalgamation of boilerplate copper and dull chrome, fastened together by endless rivets and what looked in places like lashed tethers. The overlarge turbine housing nestled under the bow was caked in solomite and other space detritus, and looked like it hadn't been cleaned in many solar cycles. Craning his neck, Godfrey found that there was even a messy woodpile on one wing, and the baffling smell of a barbecue.
            The egress ramp was down, so the junior dock officer strode up it and banged loudly on the hull. The knocking echoed away into the cavernous interior, and Godfrey knocked again, making his knuckles sore.
            He heard footsteps clanking away from within, and a grumbling voice drifted out of the hatchway: "All right, all right. I'm coming, hold your horses."
            A woman appeared at the top of the ramp, squinting in the daylight and looking Godfrey up and down. "We don't want any, thanks."
            "I'm not selling anything," he pointed out.
            "Good," she said, "because we don't want any."
            "I am Second Intendant Frohock, Assistant to the Admiral-Superintendant of the Royal Space Docks. I'm here about your permit."
            The woman stuck out her hand. There was a small bonobo chimpanzee clinging to it. "Valerie's the name. This is Kevin. Don't mind him, he's new. Do you need his permit now? Only I'll have to wait until he's gone potty, if I'm being honest."
            "Your dockyard permit," Godfrey persisted, leaning away from the chimp as it swiped at his clipboard. "This ship is unregistered."
            "Oh, that old trifle," Valerie said. She reached into the bum bag strapped around her middle and produced a banana, which she handed over to the grateful bonobo. "We must have one around here somewhere. Would you like to have a gander?"
            Godfrey eyed the creaking spacecraft dubiously. "It's not likely to collapse on me, is it?"
            "Not if you feed him a kipper every now and then. If you're good with monkeys, you're good with rocket ships, that's what the Prof says."
            "The Prof? He's the owner of this... contraption, is he?" Godfrey made a note on his clipboard, after wiping away several strands from Kevin's banana.
            "She tinkers," Valerie said with a wink. "Come and say hello. I think she's in the roof." The woman waved Godfrey in pleasantly, and even the chimpanzee offered up a welcoming smile. The junior officer hesitated, recalling the stories of the howling ghosts that prowled the ship's corridors, snatching up any vagrants who wandered too close to the berth.
            Godfrey told himself to get a grip. Nobody put any stock in tall tales. Holding his clipboard out in front of him, ready to furiously note down anything he disagreed with, he stepped through the ship's mouth as Valerie beckoned him further along the corridor.
A short while later, Valerie found the Professor exactly where she'd left her among the steaming pipes and conduits above the flight deck. "Supper's ready, Prof," she called, and her colleague's upside-down face emerged from the tangle of plumbing. "I brought a new friend along to help out. He's shaping up quite nicely. Even Kevin's taken a shine to him."
            "What's his liver look like?"
            "I don't know," Valerie mused, "I didn't think to ask."
            "I could do with one."
            "Well, he's a little indisposed right now, but I'm sure me and Kevin will get around to his liver soon enough. I'll send him up with supper, shall I?"
            "Ta," said the Prof, and disappeared back into the ceiling.
            Valerie left her to her work, and returned to her newfound friend in the galley, humming all the way.
<![CDATA[Aloysius Nabber and the Third Temple of Tibb]]>Fri, 15 Sep 2017 11:46:43 GMThttp://honesttommy.weebly.com/flashtales/aloysius-nabberA tale of cunning and derring-do as the famed adventurer Aloysius Nabber ventures into the Harrow of Meandering Ghasts within the Third Temple of Tibb.

"Aloysius Nabber and the Third Temple of Tibb"
by Tom Menary
As everybody in the Fifteen Galaxies well knew, Aloysius Nabber was one of the most daring adventurers of the Cosmic Age. It was said there wasn't a temple in the entire Ralfollo Belt he hadn't plundered, nor a pirate's space-galleon left with its booty intact. He cut a striking figure in the folklore of the Ralfollo, and his escapades even graced the well-thumbed chapbooks sold on the streets of London. He was, all in all, quite the dashing gallant and exciting doer of derring-do.
    He'd also just trapped his leg in a dogbane snare inside the Third Temple of Tibb, and was trying to heave it free with all his might.
    "Billy's buttocks!" he exclaimed. "You've gone and done it now Wisher, you daft gollumpus." He yanked on the offending limb again, but it refused to budge from the tight noose. That he'd made it this far inside the labyrinthine temple was testament to his legendary guile, but Nabber quite forgot to watch his step upon entering the Harrow of Meandering Ghasts, and blundered straight into the trap.
    "Wiggle your ankle Wisher, that's it," he muttered, circling his foot to try and shake the snare free, when he caught a low growling coming from the other end of the Harrow. Looking up, he saw a mouthful of monstrous fangs glinting in the torchlight, belonging to what could only have been the hairy face of a ravenous Soulgulping Gavacher.
    The beast roared, claws scraping on the flagstones, and Nabber bit his nails in what was surely the fright of his life. Gavachers were the stuff of local folklore as much as he was, and the adventurer had always feared meeting one in the stringy, pustule-ravaged flesh. He gnashed his nails all the more as the monster crawled closer, its maw widening as if to swallow him whole.
    Fortunately, Aloysius Nabber never forgot his training among the wise mystics of the Holy Molehill, and launched a perfectly-executed eponychium-glyth at the howling Gavacher—which is to say he chewed off a slender fingernail and spat it full force into the beast's rheumy eye. The Gavacher, surprised as anything, shrieked and reared back, giving Nabber enough time to lash out with his free foot. His well-placed kick caught the beast in its soft and fuzzy underbelly, sending it skittering back and tumbling into a conveniently-situated pit in the floor. Its keening wail dropped away into silence, and the echoes died away.
    Nabber took a moment to catch his breath (and spit several more times to rid himself of the taste of his own fingers) then began working on the snare once more. So enlivened were his wits by his close encounter, the pre-eminent explorer soon freed himself from entrapment, and continued along on his quest to raid all seven of the ancient Temples of Tibb.
    Legend says that Aloysius Nabber did indeed make it out of the Third Temple alive and well. Other legends point out that he promptly fell down a big well in the Fourth Temple of Tibb... but that must be a story for another occasion.