Wings of the Magpie: Space Operettas Read Online Free

aggressive tirade. “I’m a Grummand,” he said, turning to follow the Gwyndon, “Your problems are our business.”
     

The Pride of the 419th
     
    As I dropped the GravLif onto the main drag, the painted glass window of one of Port Minéral’s ubiquitous barrooms exploded and a man dressed in mining dungarees landed gracelessly in the muddy street. Corporal Poynter punched me in the shoulder and laughed. “Looks like that’d be a helluva good place to start.”
    Sure enough, it was. Once we got inside the beer-soaked tavern, we discovered that Gunny was, as usual, at the center of attention, repeatedly smashing a man’s head against an upright piano to the cheers and jeers of the amassed crowd of nearly-identical miners. Poynter and I watched for a few moments; after all, it’s always a pleasure to watch Gunny do what Gunny does best, but at precisely the instant when the jeering miners seemed ready to rally to the defense of their battered comrade, Poynter and I decided to intervene.
    Ozone sizzled as we powered up our Crowd Control Sticks, and the miners turned as one to silently scrutinize this new threat. “Gunnery Sergeant McGill,” I barked. “You are hereby requested to drop that piece of company property and return to the ship immediately.”
    Gunny grinned, then walloped the man’s head against the piano one last time before dropping him onto the sawdust-covered floor, where he lay, groaning. “Evening, ladies,” growled Gunnery Sergeant McGill, pulling a half-smoked cigar from the pocket of her flak jacket and placing it between her chrome-plated teeth. “I assume my chariot is waitin’.”
    Poynter saluted. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.” Suckup.
    Gunny sauntered towards the door, stopping at the bar for a moment to down a shot of glowing green liquid. She coughed, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, then dropped a handful of copper coins onto the bar. “Keep the change,” she said, and headed outside. By the time Poynter and I got to the GravLif, Gunny was already sitting behind the controls, motor chugging away. “Don’t think I’d trust you two knuckleheads to drive in your condition,” she laughed. “Get in, time’s a wasting.”
    I took shotgun and Poynter climbed into the turret. Gunny slammed the transport into gear, looked over her right shoulder, and the GravLif shot straight up into the air, terrifying a flock of local birds as it ascended. Gunny quickly managed to wrestle the GravLif into a woozy semblance of control, then turned to look at me. “Refresh my memory, Magpie,” she asked. “Where in the blinding blue blazes did we park the boat?”
    ***
    We dropped the GravLif at the motorcade, checked the CC Sticks at the armory, and caught the first shuttle back to the Tiptree . On the way home, Gunny regaled us with tales of the evening's adventures. “Typical mining clones,” she laughed. “Give ’em a little bit of flirtin’ and encouragement and they get all hotheaded, start throwing punches. No manners at all. Sure sign of testosterone poisoning. You’d think they were batchbred on this godforsaken rock; you’d think they were raised by robots. Oh, wait, they were. Give me a couple of nice, strapping, natural-born farmboys and a few cases of beer over these neutered knuckleheads any day of the week, and I’ll show you how to have a good time.”
    At one point, Poynter was laughing so hard I was half-convinced she'd crack a rib. By the time we finally hit the cramped and sweaty ready room, it was 0900 hours, and our squad, the Seven Deadly Dames, the Pride of the 419th, was fully assembled. We settled in, made small talk, and began to engage in the personal rituals of pre-Slipspace preparation.Gunny pulled chin-ups while telling dirty jokes to anyone in earshot, “…if a kid is born, it’s gotta be raised a Zoroastrian.” Emerald, our sniper, cleaned her sidearm and laughed heartily, while Mills and Lawrence, the bonded pair of sappers, shaved one another’s heads.